Her Wicked Ways (16 page)

“I suppose it’s no use trying to convince you I wasn’t expecting tedious.” And anyway, that wasn’t really true. “I enjoy many things about Wootton Bassett.” Miranda eyed the dirty hem of her favorite day dress. The constant mud was not one of those things. With resignation, she raised her gaze once more.

Beatrice focused her attention out the window in what was probably supposed to be a careless manner, but Miranda could see the tension bunching her shoulders. “Mr. Stratham is one of those things.”

Comprehension dawned. Miranda would set Beatrice straight right now. “No. That is to say, my interest in Mr. Stratham is of a purely pragmatic and likely temporary nature.”

Beatrice looked at Miranda, blushing profusely. “Not romantic?”

At the word romantic, an image of sapphire, jade, and amber eyes jumped into Miranda’s mind. Good Lord, that was an alarming—and completely unacceptable thought. “Beatrice, you must realize that while I don’t hate it here, I will return to London. I’ve no desire to remain in Wiltshire—for romantic reasons or otherwise.”

“But Stratham’s carriage was at Stipple’s End after the last vicarage tea. He left hurriedly, apparently to see you.” Beatrice’s color faded. Her level gaze dared Miranda to prevaricate.

Miranda had already been interrogated by Beatrice’s father. She narrowed her eyes and gave Beatrice the same answer she’d given Carmody. “Yes, he came to see me. But I was busy.”

Self-preservation demanded she didn’t admit they’d been alone together. A thought struck Miranda—clearly Beatrice had been ruminating on this for days. “I didn’t realize you hoped for his attention.”

Beatrice’s cheeks reddened again as the carriage rambled to a full stop. She opened her mouth to speak, but merely said, “Oh, never mind,” and jumped out.

Miranda followed, eager to pursue a discussion of Beatrice’s feelings toward Stratham. The match began to take shape in Miranda’s mind, and she smiled. Putting them together would be like being back in London with her friends.

Fitchley opened the door to the house, and Beatrice disappeared inside. “I’ve a letter for you, Lady Miranda.” He handed her the missive, effectively halting her progress.

She turned the parchment over in her palm. Her father’s seal. Her heart quickened and her plan regarding Beatrice fled. “Thank you.” She dashed up the stairs, tempted to take them two at a time. Once in her room, she closed the door firmly and shook off her pelisse. She pulled her bonnet off and laid it over the end of the bed with her gloves.

She stared down at the missive. Would it be good news or bad? Happy tidings or blistering admonishments? She plucked it up and tore it open, her eyes scanning its length. It was short. Maddeningly, disappointingly short.

Miranda,

Please stop pleading to come home. You ruin not only yourself with your behavior—you infect the entire family.

Do everyone a courtesy and stop writing.

Holborn

The paper fell from her fingers and drifted to the desk. The gray-white walls of her room blurred before her eyes. It was a miracle Father hadn’t sent her to a convent instead of rural Wiltshire.

She grabbed the poker and went to stoke the fire. Anguish clogged her throat, made it ache as she stirred through the embers. If only her parents hadn’t been so controlling. They were certain she would ruin herself, gave her no credit for making her own sound judgments. The memory of Stratham kissing her at Stipple’s End made her insides cringe. Perhaps she’d never given them reason to.

Her efforts with the fire were as pointless as thinking about how she might earn her parents’ trust. Replacing the poker in its stand, she sat on the side of the bed and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. She flopped back and gazed up at the ceiling. A crack marred a crooked path from one corner to the center of the room. How long had it taken to get that far? How long before it met the other corner and split the room in two?

How long would she be consigned to this abyss? She was alone and separated from everything she knew. Everyone she loved.

And for the first time, she wondered if she didn’t deserve it.

MIDNIGHT had come and gone, and still Fox leaned against a tree, surveying the quiet drive leading to Stratham Hall. He’d wait ten more minutes. How did true highwaymen not die of boredom waiting for their next quarry?

Though just past mid-August, the crisp scent of autumn already hung in the air. Fox usually loved this time of year, but the disaster of the harvest weighed heavy, smothering his anticipation of the coming season.

He’d stationed himself outside Stratham’s estate every night over the past fortnight. When the rat left his nest, Fox followed him, hoping he was headed to Cosgrove. It made sense that Stratham would take the tribute money to Norris as he was the driving force behind the scheme. Fox knew this because his own father had collected money for the earl until Norris discovered the elder Foxcroft had pocketed a share to make up for his losses at the gaming tables. Norris had ended the relationship. Though he couldn’t prove it, Fox believed the earl had then done whatever possible to foster Fox’s father’s gambling addiction. If an attack of the heart hadn’t killed him, he likely would have bled both Stipple’s End and Bassett Manor completely dry.

Could the people afford the money Norris demanded this year? Not that they had a choice. They either paid Norris, or he’d do whatever necessary to ruin their livelihood, just as he’d done with Fox’s father.

The lights of Stratham’s pretentiously extravagant house were visible through the trees. Built a mere fifty years ago, Fox admitted the estate was far grander than Bassett Manor, but in his opinion its lack of character and history made it the lesser home.

Stratham’s carriage rattled around the drive from the back. Fox pulled himself astride Icarus while he waited for Stratham to get in the vehicle. Within a few minutes, the carriage rumbled toward Fox. He stepped his horse behind the tree.

A coachman rode on the box and a footman stood on the back. Stratham didn’t normally take the extra man. Could this mean he carried the tribute money tonight and needed the additional security?

Fox checked his pistols and ran his palm over the hilt of his saber. Despite his armament, he was still outnumbered—not that he counted Stratham in the equation.

A twig snapped behind Fox. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and turned in the saddle.

“Hold there.” Rob, wearing his mask, walked his horse closer. “It’s just me. I thought you could use some help.”

Fox exhaled, the air hissing through his clenched teeth. “I told you I didn’t want to risk you.”

“But there’re two of them on the coach.”

Fox nodded. “All right, but stay hidden unless I need you.” He led Icarus into a trot, and they followed Stratham in silence.

After a few minutes, Rob asked, “Where do you plan to do this?”

“Assuming he’s on his way to Cosgrove, just before the bridge. I’m going to cut across Wickersham’s field to beat them there.”

Rob grunted in response, and they made their way across the field. They stopped just shy of the bridge and heard the distant sound of Stratham’s carriage. He was headed for Cosgrove then.

Fox and Rob moved into a copse of trees. Fox climbed down from Icarus and ran to the middle of the road just as the coach rounded a bend and came into view.

The coach slowed. The coachman half-stood in his box. “You there! Get out o’ the road!”

Fox took his pistols from his waistband and pointed them at the coachman. Careful to disguise his voice, he shouted, “Stand and deliver!”

The coachman brought the horses to a shuddering halt.

Fox kept the pistols steady, his arms wide. “I know there’s a footman on back. Come ‘round slowly. I’ve got a bullet fer the coachman and one fer you if need be.”

The footman appeared from the right side of the coach. The moon was but a sliver in the sparsely clouded sky, but the lanterns on the coach provided ample illumination.

Stratham opened the carriage door and jumped to the ground behind the footman, who made his way forward. “What is the meaning of this?”

Fox pointed a pistol at the coachman. “You, get down. Slowly.” He fixed his other weapon on the footman. “Keep yer hands up where I can see ‘em.”

Stratham stepped around his servant. “You’re that damned blackguard! Thought you’d run off or, better yet, died.”

“Not at all. I’ve been waiting fer you.” Fox smiled malevolently beneath his mask. A satisfying idea struck him. “Coachman. Loose the horses.”

“Are you mad? Those beasts cost a fortune!” Stratham shrieked.

Fox chuckled low in his throat. “You’ll find ‘em again, no doubt.” The coachman hesitated. “Coachman, I’ve still got a pistol on you or have you forgotten?”

The servant freed the horses. They wandered to the side of the road and grazed.

Fox gestured toward them with his pistol. “Coachman, give ’em a good pat to send ’em on their way.” The coachman complied, and Stratham yowled like a wounded animal.

The small man stepped forward, throwing his face in shadow as he moved away from the light. “You’ll pay for this. I won’t rest until you’re strung up.”

“Fer what, turning yer horses loose?” Fox waved at him with a pistol. “Step back into the light, please.”

Stratham moved backward, his eyes narrowed. “I presume you’ve another reason for stopping my coach.”

Fox kept one pistol trained on the footman and the other on the coachman. “Aye.”

Stratham inclined his head toward Fox. “You’ve only two bullets there. And there are three of us.”

Fox looked Stratham up and down in an exaggerated fashion so the weasel would know he was being appraised even though the appraiser wore a face-covering mask. “That’s a bit generous, don’t you think? I’d count two and a half at best.”

Stratham balled his fists and surged forward, but his feet didn’t leave the ground. “We can overtake you.”

“No, I’ve other men in the trees.” Fox called out, “Give a whistle, will you?” Rob responded in kind. “Assuming yer satisfied with our ability to quash any rebellion you might mount, let us move on to our transaction. I’ll take all the money you’re carrying tonight.” He moved the pistol slightly, training it on Stratham’s chest. “All of it.”

“Christ.” Stratham ran a hand through his hair, tousling the always-immaculate tresses.

Fox grinned. Adrenaline poured through his veins. Luck was finally his. “You,” he gestured to the footman standing just behind Stratham, “fetch the money. Take off yer coat and leave it on the ground. My men have their guns trained on you. If you come out of the carriage with a weapon, they’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”

The footman nodded and backed up slowly before bending into the open door of the carriage. Fox couldn’t see the servant, and hoped Rob had a good view of the man’s movements.

“How do you know I’m carrying money? Do you work for Norris? He better not be stealing his own money only to make me collect it again.”

Not a bad ruse. Fox wouldn’t put it past the old codger to come up with something so vile. And he saw no harm at all in allowing Stratham to think the worst about the man who pulled his strings. “Believe what you will.”

The footman emerged from the carriage with a tapestry bag. Fox could hardly wait to see how much it contained. From Stratham’s reaction, it seemed a lot. Perhaps more than Fox dared hope. It couldn’t be more than he needed, however. He doubted there was a number high enough. He inclined his head toward the line of trees in which Rob hid. “Put it down over there and then step back here. Slowly.”

Once the footman deposited the bag near the trees, Rob stepped out and picked it up with one hand, his other clutching a pistol trained on the servant.

Stratham’s hand twitched, as if he was missing his third arm—that damned walking stick of his. “I hope for your sake you work for Norris. If you don’t, he will exhaust every resource hunting you down.”

“Why, when as you pointed out, he can simply make you collect more?” Even as he said this, Fox inwardly cringed. Having to come up with another payment could wreak disaster for some people.

Before he regretted his actions, Fox backed toward the trees. The footman had returned to Stratham’s side and the coachman lingered on the other side of the now-empty traces.

Fox heard the breathing of their horses, knew Rob was mounted and had Icarus ready to fly. “Good evening then, gentlemen.” He dashed into the cover of the trees and tucked one pistol away. With his free hand, he pulled himself onto Icarus’s back and they sped from the roadside copse as fast as the horses could manage. They kept clear of the road and made their way toward Bassett Manor, not daring to stop and count the money now tied to the back of his saddle.

How would he explain the influx of wealth to Mrs. Gates or anyone else who might ask? The sudden repairs would not go unnoticed, especially when he’d been asking everyone over the age of fifteen for a donation. If he told them he sold something valuable, they’d simply wonder why he hadn’t done so before. No, he’d have to spend it judiciously and not draw too much attention. If asked, he would say they had an anonymous donor. He would have to be careful, lest Stratham or Norris grow suspicious. He’d sit on the majority of the money for at least a fortnight.