The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (15 page)

“Please, Aunt Lilith, don't leave. Your abrupt departure would alert Father and…” Elizabeth swallowed the rest of her plea when she realized that her father had already been alerted.

“Everything has turned into such a bloody horror.” Lilith dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I'm sorry I told Dorothea about your liaison. At the time I thought it best, but frankly I'm no longer sure.”

“Then you must help me. John means to come for me tonight, and Father is laying a trap.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The highwayman. His name is John. Tonight, when John arrives, he'll be captured, probably killed on the spot. You must head for York, then double back and wait for John at the crossroads. Call him by name and tell him
Bonny Bess
insisted you intercede. Dorothea said you saw him from the window and at Turnbull's execution, so you know what he looks like. Please, Aunt Lilith, you must warn John to stay away, that the inn will be swarming with lawmen.”

“You don't realize what you're asking of me, Elizabeth. Your John is a thief, a murderer.”

“He has murdered no one.”

“He's a criminal!”

“Tell John that Lord Stafford and Dorothea are taking me to London on the morrow. Tell him I have no choice. If I refuse, I shall undoubtedly be forced to travel against my will. Tell him I'll give Lord Stafford the slip and meet him as soon as I can. Tell him to wait for me at the peel tower.”

Lilith balled her handkerchief between her palms. “I must not get involved in this.”

“If you don't warn him, he'll think I betrayed him…” She almost said
again.
“If you don't warn him, they'll kill him. And without him, I might as well be dead.”

“I dreamed about the Harvest Ball, Elizabeth. When I awoke, I was weeping. It was a premonition. If you ride off with your highwayman, something terrible will happen. And if I help, I'll be setting in motion tragic events.”

“Would you rather be a party to John's murder?”

“I would rather be left out of this completely!”

“It seems such a little thing, to warn John. Furthermore, if you had not betrayed us,
your intervention would not be necessary. Please, Aunt Lilith, please. I'm begging you.”

“All right. I'll think about it. But I cannot promise.”

***

Elizabeth waited by her window. She watched the moon rise higher and higher. She watched the shadows of her father's men as they raced across the inn yard, or crouched behind the wagons and carriages.

The moon climbed to its zenith. No hoofbeats disturbed the silence. No rider appeared along the highway. The moon edged westward.

“Thank you, Aunt Lilith,” Elizabeth whispered.

Near sunrise, she crawled into bed. By cock's crow, she had formulated a workable plan.

Elizabeth clasped her hands around the pouch she had hidden inside her muff and settled her boot-clad feet against the warmed bricks on the floor. Walter's coach was making good time, nearly ten miles an hour, but its rocking motion threatened to put her to sleep. So did last night's vigil. With an effort, she straightened her back against the rolled damask cushion.
I must stay awake
.
I must go over my plan once again and make certain I've left no stone uncovered.

Stones still covered a coin purse filled with a ring, watch, and guineas. It was one of the reasons she wanted to meet Rand at the peel tower. She could hear his laughter when she handed him the purse, her dowry, stolen from her fiancé. She might have a vivid imagination, Elizabeth mused, but she could never devise such a subtle plot twist for one of her own novels. Admittedly, she still felt an occasional pang of guilt at her unintentional participation, but then she'd recall Walter's comment about paying triple to bed her. He had been mortified at the theft of his clothes, not the loss of a “paltry” two hundred pounds.

Ever since the coach had rumbled out of the White Hart, Walter and Dorothea had kept up a constant chatter. Elizabeth joined in often enough to appear accommodating, so that Walter would truly believe she meant to marry him. Her hand tightened around the hidden pouch. Once they stopped for the night, she would administer belladonna to both his and Dorothea's drinks. Elizabeth would wait until they were both unconscious, then flee.

During the writing of
Betrayed by a King,
she had researched poisons. In
Betrayed,
wicked Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine had murdered the beautiful, sweet, but undeniably naive Blanche by dumping belladonna into her mead.

I shall just administer a tiny amount,
Elizabeth thought.
Enough to give Walter and Dorothea a good night's sleep.

Although her forthcoming escape was uppermost in her mind, Elizabeth raised the window shade and gazed out at the scenery. Early evening had arrived, but much of the horizon's grayness could be attributed to the numerous coal, brick, and ironworks spewing forth pollution. This part of York was a study in contrasts. Stately mansions, owned by industrialists and great lords, nestled amid parks of surpassing beauty. The seemingly natural parks possessed perfectly placed trees, sham ruins, and placidly grazing sheep or deer, which were kept in their respective pastures by sunken ditches. Only the numerous industrial villages, clustered around mine shafts, marred the idyllic picture.

“I've been inside many of the residences around here,” Walter said. “Dearest, please pay me some heed.”

“Yes, my lord.” With a sigh, Elizabeth turned away from the window and settled her muff more securely in her lap, as if she held a temperamental Pomeranian rather than a tubular covering for her hands.

“You've been entertained inside England's grandest houses, haven't you, my lord?” Dorothea was giving full vent to her euphoria over obtaining Walter as a son-in-law. “And you've probably even lived in them.”

Walter smiled ruefully. “To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed entrance to many of these residences as an ordinary—” he coughed as if embarrassed “—working man.”

“You have not always been a gentleman of leisure?”

“Now that Elizabeth and I are to be wed, I fear it's time to confess something, Mrs. Wyndham. While I am indeed a member of the Stafford lineage, I'm a fourth cousin from an impoverished family in Birmingham.”

Dorothea looked as if a physician had just informed her that she had only scant moments to live. “But what about all your money and property?”

“I earned every shilling and inherited not so much as one acre of land. I am a magnate, Mrs. Wyndham, with a magnate's rank, power, and influence.”

“Do tell!” At the mention of rank, power, and influence, Dorothea had regained her former enthusiasm. “Lord Stafford has secrets he's been keeping from us, Elizabeth.”

“Secrets,” she echoed politely.

“I left Birmingham for London as a very young man. I was employed by the Bow Street Runners, and in all modesty, I must admit that I established some prominence. Sometimes we Runners solved crimes outside London. That is when I first gained entrance to mansions such as we've passed.”

Attention caught, Elizabeth leaned toward him. “You were a member of the Bow Street Runners?” The Runners was a well known organization of detectives. They had provided the first effective alternative to London's ancient—and inefficient—system of watchmen and parish constables.

“Yes, dearest.” Walter preened. “I was rather good at it, I might add, and made a bit of a reputation. Wealthy people often employed me to provide protection against pickpockets. Eventually, I obtained more than a cursory knowledge of London's underworld. It was an interesting job, but not one in which an honest man could become rich. I gave it up in order to pursue a far more profitable though less prestigious occupation.”

“And what was that?” Elizabeth asked, fearing the answer. Even without further disclosures, Walter's revelations were unsettling.

“Some called us thief-takers, others bounty hunters, but whatever the name, we tracked down criminals for monetary compensation.”

“You're a bounty hunter?” Elizabeth tried for a calm, casual demeanor. “Why did you not mention that fact before?”

“Because I'm retired. And while bounty hunting can be a very lucrative profession, it doesn't enjoy an elevated status. Not that I was ashamed of it, but I wanted to begin an entirely new life as a gentleman. It was the primary reason I moved to the Dales, so far away from all reminders of my past.”

“Fascinating,” Dorothea exclaimed. “And that's how you came to know London so well.”

“I
knew
London. For the past five years I've seldom visited. But it hasn't changed so much that I'll be unable to squire you about and entertain you.”

A bounty hunter,
Elizabeth thought, squirming in her seat. Walter knew all about crime, which probably meant he already suspected her of planning to poison him.

Walter patted Elizabeth's muff. “You seem a bit pensive, my dear. Are you not excited about our journey and our marriage?”

“Of course.”
A Bow Street Runner. A bounty hunter.
She actually felt her eyes widen at the impact of his revelation.

“I own a small but lovely residence on Great George's Street,” he continued, “which is one of
the
addresses in London. I purchased it out of the profits I've made as a business partner in a local gambling establishment.”

“Goodness,” Dorothea cooed. “You have your hand in so many things. Won't he make a fascinating husband, Elizabeth?”

“Fascinating,” she echoed dutifully.

“I can't wait to show you all that London has to offer, dearest.”

Walter had assumed a fatuous expression, Elizabeth noted, not unlike the coxcombical whips she'd met at Beresford's drum. It was remarkable how Walter slipped in and out of his various roles. No doubt he was a great actor. He had certainly fooled her.

“We shall boat down the Thames,” he said with enthusiasm, “and visit the theatres in Drury Lane. And we must stroll the pleasure gardens, especially Vauxhall and Ranelagh, so that we may take tea there and be seen. I want to be seen with you, Elizabeth. Your beauty is your primary asset, which will surely enhance my reputation.”

“Don't forget shopping,” Dorothea gushed. “You promised you'd take us to Pall Mall and St. Paul's Churchyard and the Strand. Didn't you purchase Elizabeth's necklace in the Strand?”

“Indeed. I paid seventy-five pounds for it, which is undoubtedly more than it's worth. But my extravagance was well rewarded when I saw the expression on Elizabeth's face. She said she would wear it everywhere, didn't you, dearest?”

“Yes. Everywhere.”

“I said I preferred it 'round her neck.” Walter chuckled, then removed a pinch of snuff from his powder blue snuffbox, covered with frolicking nymphs and satyrs.

Dorothea laughed, while Elizabeth clutched her golden coil of a necklace.
I'm in a carriage with a man who made his living tracking down criminals.
What have I let slip? What does he know about me that I don't know he knows?

“And you did promise you would purchase a wedding gown for Elizabeth and at least one new gown for me,” Dorothea pressed.

“Of course. But may I remind you that I've already spent a great deal paying off your mortgage, Mrs. Wyndham? You must comprehend that, while I am a man of means, my funds are not unlimited.” He passed Dorothea his snuffbox, then addressed Elizabeth. “Once we arrive in London, is there anything you specifically wish to see, dearest?”

“The Tower of London sounds interesting.” Elizabeth felt as if she had just been consigned to it. She peered through the window again, avoiding Walter's incisive gaze. In the distance, a couple strolled across a stone bridge that dissected an artificial lake. The lady's golden parasol bobbed like an autumn leaf caught in a current. Lights, the color of buttercups, sprang from the interior of a mansion perched atop a hill. Walter had gained entrance to those homes as a bounty hunter.

“If you want to visit unusual sights,” Walter said, “may I suggest Bedlam? It provides hours of entertainment. The woman who tried to assassinate His Majesty is incarcerated there. Margaret somebody-or-other. She's a barber's daughter who believes the Crown is rightfully hers, and if she does not become regent, England will be washed in blood.”

Elizabeth shivered.
Washed in blood!

“Speaking of the king,” Dorothea said, “is there any truth to the rumor that His Majesty has suffered some sort of fit?”

“Unfortunately, yes. While no one has officially mentioned the king's illness, a very good friend of one of His Majesty's body servants sent me a drawn out missive and told me all about it. King George apparently suffers from the Flying Gout, which flew from his legs to his head.”

Dorothea clapped her hands. “Do tell. Oh, won't it be fun to be related to somebody who knows something about everything? Elizabeth, pay attention!”

“Something about everything,” she murmured, turning her face toward Walter.

Reaching inside his coat, he withdrew a brandy flask from the pocket in which he also carried a pistol. After taking a long pull from the flask, he proceeded to detail King George's obsession with a certain Lady Pembroke. According to Walter, the king sometimes believed Lady Pembroke was his wife and he would order his true queen to get away from him.

“You're remarkably well-informed, my lord,” Elizabeth said softly. “What else do you know that you haven't told me?”

A shout obliterated Walter's reply. The coach lurched to a halt. Walter opened the door and leaned out. “Shit,” he swore. “Damn it t' hell! We're being robbed.”

Elizabeth saw Rand, framed in the doorway. He wore his polished boots, doeskin breeches, white shirt, and black cloak. Seated atop his black stallion, his arm was steady as he pointed the muzzle of his pistol at Walter's chest.

“Hide your necklace,” Dorothea muttered, stuffing a pair of emerald earbobs and a bracelet down her bodice.

“Outside! Now!” Rand gestured toward the coachman, who sagged against the horses. “You're at my mercy, Stafford, so I suggest you stand and deliver.”

Rand had made no effort to disguise himself. But even while Elizabeth decried his foolishness, she admired his courage. She descended from the carriage, followed by Dorothea, who whispered, “If this scoundrel is who I think he is, should we emerge from this alive I'll strangle you myself. Whatever you do, don't admit to knowing him.”

“I shall keep his identity a secret,” Elizabeth whispered back, tossing her pouch-filled muff toward a clump of dense, prickly brush. “And that's a promise.”

“John Turpin!” Walter exclaimed. “Have you given up dissecting corpses?”

Elizabeth blinked.
Who the bloody hell is John Turpin?

Rand grinned. “I prefer robbing bastards like you, m'lord.”

“I suspected you were Zak Turnbull's accomplice all along.” Walter smoothed his coat and adjusted his sleeves, as if readying himself for a social engagement. “I don't know how you gave me the slip after Turnbull's execution, but it is of little consequence. Men such as you never learn and never change their way of life. That's why you're as good as dead.”

“Perhaps. But you have something I want, Stafford, and I've come to take it.”

Maintaining his attitude of unconcern, Walter brushed an imaginary spot from the front of his coat. “And what might that be, pray tell?”

Rand gestured toward Elizabeth with his pistol.

Walter's eyes widened. “Miss Wyndham?”

“Me?” Elizabeth wrung her hands and fluttered her lashes. “Oh dear, what are you going to do with me?” This was far more exciting than lacing drinks with belladonna.

“I believe you know full well what I plan to do with you. I haven't followed this carriage just to exercise my horse.”

Straightening to his full height, Walter eyed Rand as he would a recalcitrant servant. “You may take our worldly goods, Turpin, but you are not to lay a hand on Miss Wyndham. It will go hard on you if you despoil her in any way.”

“Hard on me?” Rand laughed. “You can only stretch a man's neck so far, Stafford. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Everything,
” he repeated, his gaze probing Elizabeth's face until his eyes met hers.

Only she understood the true meaning of his words. Clasping her hands in front of her bodice as if she could still the rapid beat of her heart, she heard Dorothea groan.

“Miss Wyndham is betrothed to me!” Walter shouted.