Barbara Metzger (10 page)

Jake had always wanted a gang of his own. Some youngsters dream of having a fancy carriage, a yacht, a big house. Jake wanted a gang, a band of cutpurses, pickpockets, highwaymen, all under the command of his master thievery. That’s why he took in his sister’s two half-grown brats when she ran off with that cardsharp, the bailiffs at their heels. He didn’t blame her for leaving; it was a step up for the girl. But Jake should have known she’d have taken the brats with her if they’d been worth tuppence. They weren’t.

She’d named her sons after their respective fathers: Hey, Sailor, and Hi, Handsome. Sailor was too big and clumsy to be a pickpocket, and Handy was too weak to run fast enough. Sailor couldn’t load a pistol correctly, and Handy was too squeamish to handle a knife. They were just as bad at cutting off ladies’ reticules as they were at rolling drunks. Thank goodness for Sal, except that Jake resented being dubbed one of her parasites. It was supposed to be his band of rogues, not a blasted dog’s. He’d have hated being part of the Lamb Chop Gang, if he knew that’s what the denizens of that rural thieves’ den were calling him and the boys. But he’d love the lamb chop.

After the old toff made the barkeep send for the magistrate, there was nothing for it but to take to the woods, Sailor and Handy supporting Jake between them. They were lucky to find an abandoned cottage. Hell, Jake was lucky the boys didn’t drop him in a stream to drown. They had to lie low for a while, at least till his head cleared from that knock. He sent Sal out to see if she’d bring back a rabbit or something, or a chicken if they were near a farm. If his luck held, she wouldn’t eat the whole thing.

While Jake nursed his broken head in the broken shack, he was plotting, as a clever ringleader was supposed to do. The old codger’d been talking of a wedding hereabouts soon, with earls and baronesses. That meant money. Lots of money. Rich guests would be arriving from London, and so would fancy foodstuffs to serve them and gifts for the newlyweds. With all that coming and going, a downy cove ought to be able to turn this setback into a golden opportunity.

Jake’s plan was diabolically clever: it had two parts. One was to get his nevvies hired on as temporary help at that Woodhill Manor where the wedding was to take place. Jake still had a copy of those glowing references from Sir Winfred Prustock, that set him back a bundle from Frankie the Forger. Once inside the house, the lads could wait till nightfall and then hand him out any number of forks and spoons, silver teapots and gold plates, whatever they could carry off and fence. The rig almost worked twice in London, but the first time the incompetent gudgeons were dismissed in an hour. The next time they were put to washing windows, outside. They did manage to steal the rags and buckets.

The wedding wasn’t for two weeks, from what Jake picked up at that tavern. Those swells wouldn’t be desperate for hired help yet. Meantime, Jake was ready with the second part of his masterstroke: they’d take to the high toby. Jake and the Boys, Highwaymen. It had a ring to it. And watches, stickpins, purses. Jake had a bad headache, and a really bad idea.

*

While Daphne was discovering the dead baron, Jake and his nephews were back on the main road not too far away from Woodhill Manor, lying in wait. Sailor was sleeping in wait, having been lying so long. Jake kicked him. A coach was coming.

Highwaymen usually had horses and guns. That was the accepted
modus operandi.
Jake was doing it the hard way, on foot, with one battered old pistol between the three of them. Sal stayed in the woods hunting rabbits. The dog was too smart to get involved.

While Graydon was struggling to convey the corpse to the wine cellar, a carriage was nearing the narrow part of the road Jake had selected. They could see by the lanterns on its sides that the coach was big and shiny and prosperous-looking. Jake gave the signal, a whistle. Then he whistled again. Finally he shouted, “Now, you dunderheads!”

“Stand and deliver,” boomed Sailor from one side of the roadway.

“Or we’ll shoot,” squeaked Handy from the other, while Jake stood in the center of the road in front of the oncoming vehicle, brandishing his pistol. Jake let his eyes follow the movements of his nevvies. They were right in position, so the driver would think he was surrounded by highwaymen. A regular band of bridle culls, Jake thought proudly, except that Sailor had forgotten to raise his kerchief over his round, red-haired, baby face, and Handy was waving a tree branch, leaves and all, instead of the short oak limb that was supposed to look like a pistol. The coach kept coming. The driver whipped up his team. The guard on the seat next to him raised his blunderbuss.

Jake fired his pistol to show he meant business, hitting the coach dead on, taking a big chunk out of the polished woodwork. “Good shootin’, Uncle Jake,” Sailor yelled when the splinters stopped flying. Now the coachmen knew who they were, and knew Jake’s gun was empty. They kept coming.

At the last minute Jake panicked and jumped aside, yelling, “Run, boys,” as he dove into the woods. The coach didn’t hit him, the wheels didn’t run over him, the iron-shod hooves didn’t come close, and he rolled down a sudden incline so fast that the blunderbuss missed him by a foot.

Then he struck a rock with his head, which wasn’t made out of steel any more than were his nerves.

Now they were wanted in a whole nother county, and Jake had a lot worse headache.

Chapter Ten

There was no rest for the weary, not at Woodhill Manor, and no avoiding old flames over the kippers and eggs, not for Daphne. She had a hundred things to do this morning, all of them problematical. Having breakfast with Gray was not high on her list of things to worry about. Making sure none of the servants went in to light Uncle Albert’s fire or bring him hot water was.

She’d hardly slept all night, hearing noises that couldn’t possibly be there. Her exhausted mind was merely playing tricks on her, she told herself. Uncle Albert was
not
coming back to haunt her; he had
not
been walking the manor house corridors and moaning on the stairs because he hadn’t received proper burial. It was too soon.

Daphne didn’t bother calling for her maid, but scrambled into an easily fastened dimity round gown and pulled a comb through her curls. No amount of primping by her abigail was going to erase the shadows under her eyes or put color back in Daphne’s complexion, and there wasn’t time.

Before rushing downstairs, Daphne popped her head into Mama’s room. The bed-curtains were still drawn; Mama was still asleep. Next she peeked into Uncle Albert’s room, after making sure the hallway was empty. The bed-curtains there were still drawn, too; Uncle Albert was still dead.

Then she had to spend time begging Cousin Harriet to stop her packing and come down to breakfast. Daphne told the older woman that the baron was too sick to be a bother to anyone, and Mama needed her support at such a time. Furthermore, Daphne needed her as a chaperone downstairs in the morning room. She shouldn’t be alone with the two male guests. Thus appealed to, Cousin Harriet relented. In truth she didn’t have anywhere else to go, Lady Whilton and Daphne being her only relatives, so she didn’t need that much persuasion to stay. Her niece’s wan face most likely would have been enough, after a hasty review of her own bank statements.

While Cousin Harriet changed out of her traveling costume, Daphne raced down the back stairs to the kitchen, scandalizing Cook and the other servants gathered at the table there by asking for a tray for Uncle Albert. No, she’d carry it herself, Daphne insisted, in case his illness was catching. She’d already been exposed. And no, she did not think a doctor should be sent for yet, but perhaps soon.

Cook fixed a tray of dry toast, thin porridge, and weak tea. Daphne decided her uncle would be too ill to eat much. The toast she could crumble into crumbs for the birds outside the open window, and the tea she could pour onto the lawn, but the gruel had to be returned to the kitchen unless she was to eat it herself. How could she think of eating anything, much less that mush, when her nerves were already gnawing at her insides? Besides, she still had to face breakfast with Graydon and his father.

First she scribbled off a note to Miles Pomeroy, begging him to come at his earliest convenience. The footman she handed it to said he’d get it to the stables instantly. A groom would set out within minutes. Daphne could breathe again. If Miles didn’t come, didn’t help, didn’t have a plan… Oh dear, and she was supposed to make polite conversation?

No one at the table had much to say. Lord Hollister looked as bad as Uncle Albert, and his son looked worse. They must have stayed up half the night imbibing, like typical males trying to drown their sorrows instead of doing anything about them. At least the earl had an excuse for holding his head in his hands; his son never seemed to need an excuse for overindulging. Now Graydon’s fine brown eyes were bloodshot, his complexion was pasty, and his usually laughing mouth was drawn down in a grimace. He even took his time standing when she entered the morning room. Good. She hoped he was suffering for his sins, of which he had many. She had made a good decision, Daphne told herself, to choose Miles—for help with Uncle Albert, that is.

As Daphne pushed some eggs around her plate, she wondered how soon she could expect him, and how soon she could expect Uncle Albert to make his presence, and present condition, known now that the sun was up on a lovely spring day. Even with the windows open and the drapes pulled, the room would grow warm.

No one else made a good meal of it either, except for Cousin Harriet, who ate as if this were her last breakfast. If that old buzzard left his sickbed, she might have to leave the manor. Daphne could not reassure her, not under the present circumstances. She just sent Ohlman out to refill the serving platters.

The butler returned with a fresh pot of coffee, since the gentlemen were making inroads there, at least, and a footman bearing a tray with additional portions of steak and kidneys. He also brought Miles Pomeroy, who was a frequent and welcome enough visitor that strict formality needn’t be observed.

“I took the liberty, Miss Daphne—” Ohlman began, only to be interrupted by Daphne’s scraping her chair back and leaping to her feet.

“Miles! You came even sooner than I hoped! Thank goodness.”

Politeness dictated that Graydon and his father also stand up. Lord Hollister didn’t bother. He just groaned and whispered, “Don’t shout, girl.” The major struggled erect, frowning mightily, both for the aggravation to his leg and the effusive greeting Daffy’d given her local swain.

Daphne recalled herself, and the company, and said, “But we can speak later. Won’t you join us for breakfast?”

“Only for a moment, Miss Whilton. Shire business, don’t you know.” He took a seat next to Daphne, Graydon noticed with annoyance, and Ohlman poured him a cup of the fresh coffee while the footman filled his plate. If he ate all that, Graydon thought, the local pillar of virtue would turn into the local pillow of lard. The fellow was already leaning toward a paunch, Gray noted with satisfaction, as he sucked in his own firm abdomen. Besides, if Pomeroy’s errand was so urgent, why was he wasting time, his and Daffy’s?

“What is this official business, Pomeroy?” he prompted, hoping to get rid of the fellow with a reminder of his duty. It usually worked with those conscientious blokes.

Miles did put down his fork, but only to drink some coffee. “Another attempted robbery, Major,” he said after a moment.

“What, did some poor starving mutt swipe a leg of mutton this time?”

“No, no dog was seen, but a band of ruffians did try to hold up Mr. Foggarty’s coach last night. We think it might be the same gang”—Jake’s heart would have swelled—“for they were just as bumbling and incompetent.” He would have cried.

“Did they get away with anything?” Graydon wanted to know, thinking of his own ride tonight.

“No, Foggarty’s guard scared them off with his blunderbuss, and the driver kept on moving.”

“How awful,” Cousin Harriet declared, watching Miles finish the last rasher of bacon, “that a body is not safe on these country byways. What are you doing about it, young man?”

“I’ve got men out trying to follow the bandits’ paths, but they scattered into the woods. They’re most likely long gone by now, but I’m trying to gather descriptions for a wanted poster. Strangers aren’t all that frequent in the neighborhood. Two of the men wore masks, but the driver can identify the third robber. I want to see if his description matches Lord Whilton’s of those footpads at the tavern with the dog.”

“You want to see Uncle Albert?” Daphne asked in a faint voice. She had to get him aside first. “That’s, ah, too bad. He’s ill. You can’t—”

“What Miss Whilton means is that you cannot see the baron because he already left,” Graydon interrupted.

Daphne dropped her spoon. “He did?”

“Yes, I was about to tell you before Mr. Pomeroy arrived. The baron felt a bit better, but wished to consult his own London physician. Rather than wait here for his valet, he decided to ride to meet him on the road back, saving time. He left before the household was fully awake and entrusted me with his good-byes.”

“Dash it, I must have just missed him!” Miles tossed his napkin on the table.

“To…to London, you say?” Daphne asked. At Graydon’s nod, she put her own cloth down and stood. “Will you gentlemen excuse me for just a minute? I, ah, forgot something upstairs.”

The men could hear her soft slippers scampering down the hall. Miles frowned. Miss Whilton shouldn’t be running in the house that way, although he’d naturally not mention it in front of her relatives. He’d take her aside later. A little whisper in her ear should do it, unless she was rushing to get back to his company. His brow cleared at the thought and he was able to take another helping of shirred eggs. With the baron gone, there was no need for him to rush off in an ill-mannered frenzy.

Daphne tore up the stairs and raced down the corridor. The last thing she was worried over was being thought a hoyden. None of the servants were about, so she dove into Uncle Albert’s room and pulled open the bedhangings. Uncle Albert was gone.