The Highwayman's Daughter Page 4

  What would happen to him if she died?

  Chapter Three

  Jack hadn’t wanted to stop and talk to their neighbours, Lord Heston and his son, Kit, but the earl wanted to discuss the subject of selling one of his fields to Heston, so Jack quelled his impatience and greeted the neighbours cordially. Lord Heston, who was dressed in an exquisitely tailored riding coat, white silk stockings and black shoes with gold buckles, could easily have been described as a handsome man, if it hadn’t been for a curiously unlined face completely devoid of any real emotion.

  As always in his presence Jack experienced an involuntary shiver running down his back, and while his father and Lord Heston discussed estate matters, Jack turned to Kit to engage him in conversation. Kit was a handsome young man, tall with broad shoulders and the hallmark thick auburn hair of all the Heston boys, and negotiations were underway that he might one day marry Alethea.

  Normally Kit was very affable but today he seemed subdued, cowed even. Even talking about hunting, shooting and fishing, which had always interested Kit, elicited no more than a few words, and – puzzled – Jack had soon given up. It would have been easier to converse with a stone.

  Instead he’d allowed his gaze to roam, and it had landed on one of the haymakers, a beautiful girl, stretching out the kinks in her back by the looks of it. Fascinated, he’d ridden over to her group and spoken with one of the labourers, and eventually she had looked up and noticed him. Her reaction to him was most gratifying and he saw a flush stain her cheeks as she looked away again. On the ride home to Lampton Hall, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. There had been something about her that captivated him, although for the life of him he couldn’t say what. The sensuous way she’d moved? Her dark hair, shining in the sun? The fact she was taller than any woman of his acquaintance?

  He shook his head. What was the matter with him? First the highwaywoman, now a common labourer. Was he going soft in the head? Perhaps he should have availed himself of the courtesan’s services last night after all.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’ The earl’s voice startled him back to the present.

  ‘I beg your pardon? I was wool-gathering I’m afraid.’

  ‘I said’—as the earl repeated himself, Jack tried to clear his mind of images of lovely women. He had better things to do, such as catching himself a criminal. With a frown, his thoughts returned to their meeting with the magistrate.

  They’d found the man at his home in Hounslow, finishing off his breakfast, and the frown on his face when the servant showed them in indicated his displeasure at being disturbed this early. His expression quickly turned to one of false delight at the sight of the earl.

  ‘My lords, what a pleasant surprise,’ he boomed and indicated for them to sit. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  A rotund, middle-aged man, Sir Christopher Blencowe wore an old-fashioned grey wig and severe suit of dark blue wool with silver buttons, and habitually carried a cane with a gilt metal handle. The cane was leaning against the sideboard, and Jack cast it a sideways glance; he had memories of a painful rap across the palm of his hand. As a boy he’d deliberately scared the magistrate’s horse enough for it to bolt. His father’s reaction at the time had been to laugh and thank the magistrate for sparing him the trouble of disciplining the boy himself.

  But things had changed. Slowly Blencowe heaved his hulking frame out of the chair and bowed to them. If he noticed Jack’s somewhat irregular haircut, he was too polite to comment on it, although his gaze rested on the loose tresses just a moment too long.

  ‘I’d like to report a highway robbery,’ replied Jack without preamble and accepted the offer of a seat, as did his father.

  ‘Not that confounded youth again,’ thundered the magistrate. ‘Devil and all his cohorts take that young rascal!’

  ‘You know about him?’ Jack experienced a sense of relief that, apparently, only he and Rupert knew this to be a woman, and they were now free to carry out their bet without interference.

  ‘Naturally. The varmint has been terrorising honest folk for months now, from Brentford to as far as Staines, and all the surrounding villages. No one is safe, except for those poor enough not to have anything worth robbing. I’ve been on his trail ever since, but every time he slips through the net.’

  ‘How come we’d not been informed of this?’ asked the earl.

  The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘With all due respect, my lord, you both seem to be spending rather a large proportion of your time up in London. A local matter such as this would hardly come to the attention of fashionable society.’

  Jack heard the reproach and felt as though the words were mostly aimed at him. His father had the excuse of his parliamentary duties, but Jack? Was he really nothing but a wastrel in everyone’s eyes? Silently he vowed to do something to rectify this impression and to show his genuine interest in local matters. Perhaps if he got Rupert interested in local matters too, Jack could keep him in line. He was well aware that one day he would inherit the estate and he couldn’t just stand by and allow Rupert to ruin it.

  He retrieved the highwaywoman’s pistol from his pocket and placed it on Blencowe’s desk. ‘The culprit left this behind last night. Might it provide a clue to catching this thief?’

  Blencowe examined the pistol, but then shook his head and handed it back to Jack. ‘Sadly not. That model is common as muck and there are no distinguishing marks on it. You’d be better off selling it, my lord, as a small compensation for your losses.’

  Jack nodded. He had suspected as much, but it was worth a try. He would keep it for next time he needed to travel at night.

  ‘So what’s being done to apprehend him?’ the earl asked.

  The magistrate scratched his head. ‘I’ve had the constable scouring the outlying hamlets, but no one knows anything about him; or if they do, they’re not telling. I’m quite sure this is a local person, and there must be someone out there who does know something.’

  ‘How local, do you reckon?’

  Again the elderly magistrate heaved himself out of his chair and crossed the room to a set of shelves lining one wall of his study. He pulled down a rolled-up map, spread it out on his desk and secured the four corners. Jack could see that several locations on the map had been marked with an ink dot.

  ‘These are the sightings,’ said Blencowe. ‘Here and here’—he pointed to two dots, each with a circle around them—‘are definite confirmations that this was the same young man. At the other points the victims merely reported being robbed by a single individual, quite young, but the descriptions given were startlingly similar to those given by the boy’s victims. It would seem the general consensus is that no one this young could be this bold.’

  ‘It never crossed my own mind until yesterday,’ admitted Jack, although he wasn’t referring to a boy. In reality he only knew two kinds of women: ladies like his mother and cousin and members of their acquaintance, and the kind of female who hung around in gaming dens or Vauxhall Gardens, hoping to charm an unsuspecting young man with money to waste.

  All he knew of labouring people was what he had learnt from his father as they discussed business matters for the estate. Judging by either her speech or her diction the highwaywoman probably came from the latter.

  ‘No, and why should it?’ said the magistrate dryly. ‘Nevertheless we have a very resourceful mischief-maker on our hands leading us a merry dance. If word gets out and we don’t catch him soon, I’ll be a laughing stock. However’—he looked sideways at Jack, and there was a glint in his eyes that Jack recognised from the time Blencowe had caught him and Rupert stealing apples from his orchard—‘I have, as you see, been compiling meticulous information. A pattern has emerged.’

  Jack looked at the dots on the map, and suddenly he noticed it; there was a clear indication of an almost perfect oval shape stretching from Brentford to East Bedfont, concentrating on the Bath Road, where the highwaywoman had intercepted Jack’s carriage last night, and the Staines Road
.

  ‘Do you permit, sir?’ He took the pen from Blencowe’s inkstand, dipped it in ink and marked the point where he and Rupert had been held up. The three confirmed identifications formed a triangle, and right in the centre was the forested area just south of Old Heston Mill.

  Returning the pen to the inkstand, he said, ‘Here is where my cousin and I were set upon; so perhaps this triangle is where we should be concentrating our efforts. I’m willing to bet that the highwayman has a hideout somewhere in that forest.’

  ‘By Jove, Halliford, I believe you might be right!’ said Blencowe. ‘Still, it’s a considerably large area and I haven’t got the manpower to cover it. I suppose the most sensible course of action would be for me to call in the thief-takers.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that really necessary, given their reputation?’ Thief-takers were notoriously corrupt and would often extort protection money from the criminals they were supposed to catch instead of bringing them to justice.

  ‘That is a concern, to be sure, but I’m at my wits’ end.’

  ‘I’m quite certain that between us and your men this fish will land itself in our net soon enough,’ said Jack.

  ‘And what about your losses, my lord?’ The magistrate sounded uncertain. ‘Despite their reputation thief-takers have connections in the underworld, and tongues often wag.’

  ‘Mere trinkets. It’s the nerve of it. I’ll be frank with you: it would give me the greatest pleasure to apprehend this thief myself.’

  And that, Jack thought ruefully, was nothing short of the truth.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Blencowe. He carefully rolled up the map and returned it to its place on the shelf; then walked to the sideboard and placed his hand on a decanter. ‘Care for a glass of brandy?’ he said to his guests.

  ‘No, thank you, Blencowe,’ replied the earl. ‘It’s a little early for me.’ Jack declined as well.

  The magistrate scoffed and poured himself a generous measure. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Halliford,’ he said and eyed Jack sharply over his glass, ‘and why you wouldn’t want the thief-takers involved, but if you think you can catch this rapscallion yourself, you’re welcome to try. In the meantime I’ll continue with my own enquiries.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jack. ‘And naturally I’ll share with you anything I manage to dig up.’

  Awareness that he had already omitted to share one vital fact with Blencowe – that they were dealing with a woman – prickled uncomfortably at the back of his mind, and he knew the magistrate would have good reasons for thinking ill of him if he found out. However, he hoped to catch her before other travellers fell victim to her thieving.

  And win the wager with Rupert in the bargain.

  At sundown the labourers had finished raking the hay into wind cocks and began to disperse in different directions, some joking and laughing with relief that a long day of hard labour had finally come to an end, others in a more contemplative mood.

  Walking a few yards behind Ned, Cora offered her arm to Mrs Wilton, a widow who lived on the outskirts of the forest. She liked the older woman, on whose face years of deprivation, toil and grief had left their mark. A gentle soul, she had borne nine children and seen five of them, as well as two husbands, to the grave, but she remained as cheerful as ever and leaned gratefully on Cora’s arm.

  As the last rays of the sun bathed the treetops in a golden glow and warmed the back of her neck, Cora listened contentedly to the widow prattling on about this and that with no clear direction, as was her wont.

  ‘And did you hear about the robbery on the Heath?’ She squeezed Cora’s arm. ‘Frightful story and no mistake.’

  Cora pricked up her ears and she sensed rather than saw Ned doing the same. ‘Which robbery?’ she said, keeping her voice level.

  ‘Well, as I’ve heard tell, there’s them two fine noblemen travelling along the road last night, when they’re stopped by a gen’leman of the road, as it were, except he was no gen’leman at all, because after he’s robbed them of all their worldly goods, he attacks one of them and shaves the poor man’s head clean.’

  ‘That’s not tr—!’ Cora checked herself and amended her tone. ‘That’s not true, surely? Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the widow, ‘who indeed? If I hadn’t seen him hang with my own two eyes, I’d say it was that brigand Blueskin come back to haunt us. Bears all the hallmarks of his dealings, nasty piece of work that he was.’

  Horrified and bemused in equal measure at having her own modest exploits compared to those of the infamous cut-throat, who had even turned against his own partner, Cora allowed the widow to give her a full account of the hanging, which she had witnessed as a child.

  The reminder that her actions were leading her closer and closer to the rope made her shudder, but she quickly suppressed it. Ned’s illness gave her no other choice but to make money any way she could.

  With the widow safely escorted back to her cottage, Ned and Cora returned home in silence. After their evening meal, rabbit stew with carrots, cabbage and coarse bread, Cora took herself off to her mother’s grave, in a small clearing a little way from the cottage. It had been her mother’s last wish to be buried here, close to those she loved. At first Ned had protested that she should be in consecrated ground, but in the end he had given in to her dying wish. Cora’s mother had rarely left the cottage and the area surrounding it, and had insisted that neither should her mortal remains.

  There was no headstone, but Ned had lovingly carved a wooden board, which was now weathered and grey with age. A smaller board next to it marked the grave of Cora’s baby brother, Tom, whom had lived for no longer than his first day.

  Her heart ached at the sight of both the graves. Her mother – once a lady’s maid from a grand house – had not been cut out for the harsh living conditions in the forest, and the effects of several premature births and a difficult labour following her last pregnancy had been more than her frail body could cope with.

  Worn out and grey with fatigue, her last breath had been a sigh of relief, but before she had died, she’d grabbed Cora’s hand and squeezed it while her lips moved. Cora had had to bend very close to her mother to hear what she said.

  ‘Remember, you’re a lady,’ she had whispered.

  Sitting on the soft moss, Cora cleared away weeds and fallen leaves from the grave while she hummed a lullaby for her baby brother. Yet again she pondered her mother’s last words, which might have been caused by fever, although she’d seemed lucid enough.

  What could she possibly have meant?

  Jack parted company from his father by the gates to Lampton Hall and rode home through the estate gardens rather than following the lane to the front of the house. Under a large oak tree he stopped and surveyed his father’s mansion. The hall was perfectly situated among a wood of stately old oak trees but the sandstone house itself was set back, as if erected on an island of rolling green lawns.

  The mansion was relatively new, having been designed in the previous century by a pupil of the great Inigo Jones. Influenced by Italian Palladian architecture, Lampton Hall was a smaller version of the Queen’s House at Greenwich. The house was built over four storeys, and the main floor was accessed by a flight of external steps and south-facing portico. Tall windows ran right around the building like large dark eyes reflecting the sunlight.

  However, for the moment Jack was oblivious to its splendour. Deep in thought, he stayed seated on his horse, pondering what his next move should be. It seemed prudent to begin his search in the forested area that he had identified on the map, but he was aware that it was a sizeable locality.

  As his horse grew bored and started grazing, Jack saw movement out of the corner of his eye and shielded the sun with his hand to see better. In the distance Alethea was striding purposefully across the lawn, with Rupert in an embroidered coat and wig trailing twenty feet behind her.

  Jack grinned to himself. Anyone accompanying Alethea on her morn
ing walk only had himself to blame; she never strolled or sauntered but belted ahead as if her very life depended on it. Not even her polonaise gown of dove-grey taffeta seemed to hamper her forward movement.

  He was just about to spur the lazy horse on and join them when Rupert caught up with Alethea and grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn around. Jack’s grin became a frown; Rupert spoke urgently and Alethea wrested her arm away.

  Another fight? Jack sighed. They seemed to have become more frequent of late. Most probably Rupert had made some minor quip which had set her off; Alethea was known for having a fiery temper.

  He nudged the reluctant horse forward to meet them, dismounted when Alethea caught sight of him, and took the horse by the bit. She ran up and flung her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him over. The startled horse whinnied and shied away, the whites of its eyes stark against the chestnut coat. Jack reached out to put a steadying hand on its neck.

  ‘Jack, are you all right?’ she cried. ‘I just heard what happened. I swear, if that brigand has injured you, I don’t know what I’ll do!’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine.’ He returned the embrace and her innocent affection, as always a little overwhelmed by Alethea’s forcefulness, and then extricated himself gently from her stranglehold with a reassuring smile. ‘We both are.’

  He glanced in Rupert’s direction, and Alethea followed his eyes with a look of loathing. She stepped back and crossed her arms.

  ‘He has been following me all morning to make sure I don’t meet anyone interesting,’ she hissed. ‘I swear he’s nothing but a scarlet hypocrite. As if all his friends are suitable!’ Scowling furiously, she sent her brother another glare.

  Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s your brother and he’s devoted to you. As am I.’

  ‘Hah!’

  Rupert caught up with them, and once more Jack had to marvel at his cousin’s effortless elegance. Not a single wig hair was out of place, nor did his face appear shiny from his exertions, in stark contrast to Alethea, who looked hot and cross, like a cat on a cauldron lid. ‘Morning, cousin,’ he said to Jack, ‘I see you’ve already partaken of a bit of exercise.’