What a Rogue Desires Page 3

  There was another shout. The thief near David turned again. “You bloody bugger,” he said furiously, raising his gun. David ducked, but too late, and the last thing he saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.

  He came around with a splash of water on his face. With great effort, David pried open his eyes and squinted up at the darkening sky. “Are you awake, sir?” asked a female voice.

  He pushed himself upright, squeezing his eyes closed against the violent clanging inside his skull. “Yes.”

  “Do be easy. That outlaw gave you quite a blow.” It was Mrs. Fletcher dabbing at his face with a damp handkerchief. David took a deep breath, and gave his head a tiny shake to clear it. “Unfortunately they got away,” she went on. “If only the constables had been a few moments sooner. I vow, they should be shot! Striking a lady and leaving you for dead!”

  “Not to mention stealing,” he mumbled.

  “The outrage of it! Why, I told Mr. Fletcher we ought not to take anything valuable with us on our travels, and wasn’t I right? Now he’s gone and lost his pocket watch, and you, sir! Wasn’t I right, I asked Mr. Fletcher, just wasn’t I right, these roads are still dangerous. I never thought I’d see the like, a thief ripping the ring right off a man’s hand!”

  David thought to himself she’d see a lot worse in certain parts of London, but he was just then realizing that his whole hand felt as though it had been stepped on. He turned it over, holding it up to his face in the weak light. It was swollen, with a scrape along the side of his palm, but when he flexed his fingers everything still seemed to work. The signet ring, though, was gone.

  He swallowed a curse as Mrs. Fletcher continued to fuss over him. It was just a ring, he told himself, and another one could be made just as easily as Marcus had had that one made. It wasn’t really his fault it was gone, either. But David felt the loss like a hot coal in his gut, a searing taunt that he wasn’t up to his task. That Marcus has been right to keep tabs on him all these years, that he would never be more than a hapless scoundrel who got by on his family name and his brother’s money. He couldn’t even make it to London without mishap.

  Ignoring Mrs. Fletcher’s protests and the ache in his head, he staggered to his feet. Somehow, he would get back that ring, he vowed to himself. And he would make that highwayman regret ever picking up a pistol. “The lady,” he asked, as something else occurred to him. “The widow.”

  “Oh, she was so upset! When she came to and saw you lying on the ground like the dead, with blood all over your face, she set to weeping and carrying on like I’d never heard before. Not until Mr. Fletcher assured her you weren’t actually dead did she calm herself a bit, but when the constable came, she went all to pieces again. He had a man escort her to the next town to rest. But it’s very good of you to ask, sir. Are you acquainted with her?”

  David shook his head, very carefully. “No. I wanted to be certain she wasn’t hurt. That highwayman struck her.”

  Mrs. Fletcher nodded vigorously. “He did. Another reason for her to go on to the next town and rest.”

  “Yes. Thank you, madam.” David began walking toward the cluster of men who appeared to be in charge. “Who is the constable here?” he asked.

  A tall man with iron gray hair spoke. “I am. And you are, sir?”

  David introduced himself. “Have you any hope of apprehending the thieves?” he asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

  The constable swelled with offended pride. “Of course we have, of course,” he huffed. “Not the first time those brigands have struck hereabouts. We’ll have them soon enough, sir, depend upon it.”

  “Not soon enough, clearly,” said David. The constable flushed. “What are you doing to find them?”

  The constable and his men began talking at once, gesturing in every direction while making no effort to move in those directions. They hadn’t a prayer, he realized, as the pounding in his head worsened. “And are we to stand here in the middle of the road while you argue over it?” he interrupted to ask.

  The constable closed his mouth. “What was your name again, sir?”

  “Lord David Reece. I’m expected in London tomorrow on business for my brother, the duke of Exeter, and have little patience to wait here in this thief-infested county until you reach a decision.”

  As usual, Marcus’s name worked wonders on the man’s attitude. “Yes, sir,” he said with a bow. “No, sir. Thomas!” He waved one of his men forward. “See that the passengers are carried on to the next town at once. We’ll conduct our investigation from there.” With a flurry of activity, everyone was returned to the coach, the constable and his men rode on, and at last they were off. The other passengers gave him a little more space than before, and David leaned his aching head into the thinly padded corner of the coach, his eyes falling on the empty spot opposite him.

  “What was her name?” he asked.

  “Who? Oh, you’ll mean young Mrs. Gray,” said Mrs. Fletcher, who seemed intent on mothering him. “Such a poor girl, widowed and left alone so young! She’s on her way back to her family, although I don’t think she’s happy about it—we had a nice long chat at the Three Roosters, you know—and now this! I vow, the poor dear has suffered enough…”

  David quit listening. Mrs. Gray. He wondered what her first name was. A poor relation, it seemed, unhappily sent back to her family. He half-smiled to himself; he seemed to have a partiality for poor young widows—especially attractive ones—although of course he couldn’t pawn this one off on his brother. Not that he particularly wanted to do that.

  His head felt like it would split open. Mrs. Fletcher talked on and on, as if the trauma of being robbed had relieved her need to breathe, and each word was like a pebble striking him in the temple. He opened his eyes a slit, hoping to look so invalid she would take the hint and be silent, but she wasn’t even looking at him as she recounted every moment of the robbery and her own outrage. David let his eyes fall closed in defeat, and tried to refocus his thoughts on something more pleasant. Like the pretty widow, and where she might be now.

  After what seemed an endless journey over a thousand ruts and bumps, they reached the next little village along the road, barely more than a coaching inn, as far as he could see. The coach lurched to a stop, and David gingerly climbed down, wincing at the loud bustle of the yard. The constable and his men had already arrived, and were issuing meaningless announcements in a booming tone that made David consider murder. He ignored them and went straight into the inn, catching the innkeeper by his sleeve.

  “A private parlor,” he said. “At once.”

  “Ah, yes, sir, yes, sir, right this way.” David followed him to a small parlor that thankfully didn’t face the road. He dropped onto the tiny sofa with a groan, resting his head with a great deal of relief.

  “Will you be wanting anything, sir?” asked the innkeeper.

  “Privacy. Quiet.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man bowed, rubbing his hands on his apron, but didn’t leave.

  “I was robbed, my good man,” said David wearily. “Put it on account.”

  There was a pause. “Shall I add it to the rest, then, sir?”

  Again David pried open his eyes. “The rest of what?”

  “The rest of your account, sir,” said the innkeeper, deferential but firm. “From your last visit?”

  David just blinked at him. Had he ever been to this place before? He certainly couldn’t recall it, at any rate.

  “Two broken pitchers, several pieces of smashed crockery, a chair leg broken off, and one mattress fair ruined with water, sir,” the innkeeper added. “Eighteen quid, two shillings, and nine pence, sir.”

  Mention of the chair leg stirred a vague memory. His friend Percy, several bottles of wine, and two barmaids figured prominently, at least in as much as he could remember. When had that been? Last year? No, this spring, perhaps. “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Yes, add the room to…that.”

  The man sighed. “Yes, sir.” The door closed behind him
, filling the room with heavenly silence. David made a mental note to send payment as soon as he returned to London, and to ask Percy what was what with the chair leg, then let his head fall back.

  All too soon the constable himself knocked at the door, and David dutifully related his tale. The constable asked several questions about the thieves, but David had little to say. He hadn’t seen where they’d gone, or where they’d come from. He couldn’t describe them, because they’d struck at the perfect time, when the onset of dusk would obscure their darkened features while still leaving enough light for them to see. He described what he had been robbed of and what he recalled of the robbery. All his questions about the chances of recovery and the highwaymen’s capture were vaguely brushed aside.

  “The widow,” he said as the constable was preparing to leave. “The highwayman struck her when she said a word in my defense. Is she recovered?”

  “Don’t rightly know, m’lord,” said the man. “We’re looking for her, to take her statement, see, but she’s been hard to track down.”

  “I’d like to make her a small reward for her effort on my behalf,” David said, thinking of the lone shilling in her outstretched palm, winking sadly against the worn and darned lace of her glove. He told himself it was pity, and chivalry, and honor that prompted him, but he also knew the mention of money would make the constable not only look for her, but report back to David where she was, particularly if a coin or two were in it for himself. And in spite of his vow, David was still curious about her. When he had fulfilled his duty to Marcus, he wouldn’t mind seeing if she were still available. A lovely little thing like her ought not be dependent on inhospitable relations.

  “When I find her, sir, I shall inform her, depend on it,” said the constable, ducking his head.

  After the man had left, David leaned back again. His head felt a little better. He didn’t relish the idea of staying the night in this inn. The whole reason he had taken a place on the coach was to reach London today, and thus far it had not been worth the trouble. He got up to ring for the innkeeper, trying to decide if he could sit a horse, but had to abandon the idea when he nearly fainted crossing the room. Perhaps his head wasn’t so much improved after all.

  The innkeeper came eventually, bringing a tray with food and a bottle of surprisingly good wine. “I remember you favored this wine,” said the innkeeper, setting out the plates. David eyed him askance, wondering how much of his own life he had been too drunk to remember. He had only the barest memory of this inn, but he’d obviously been here a while. The girl who had come to assist in serving the meal kept winking at him behind her employer’s back, wiggling her eyebrows in a suggestive way. David tried to ignore her, not having the slightest memory of ever seeing her face before, but she contrived to linger after the innkeeper bowed his way out of the room.

  “Delighted to see you again, m’lord,” she said coyly, bracing her arms on the table and leaning forward, displaying her breasts in front of his face. “What’s your adventure this time? Highway robbery?”

  “Er, yes.” He took a long sip of wine, avoiding looking at her. “I was robbed and assaulted.”

  “That’s so cruel.” She drew nearer and slid her fingers into the hair at his temple. “Shall I make it all better, like last time?”

  He finally looked up into her smiling face. She was fair, a little on the plump side, and rather plain. She was an ordinary country maid who’d obviously fallen into his bed before, and he hadn’t the faintest memory of it—or her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said regretfully. “I took a dreadful knock on the head. I can barely stand on my own two feet.”

  She giggled. “I can help you stand,” she said. “Not on your feet, but tall and straight enough for a bit of fun. Shall I—?”

  “Not tonight,” he said, catching her hand as it dipped toward his lap. He brushed a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her knuckles before tucking her hand into her apron pocket. “To my everlasting sorrow.”

  Her face creased with sympathy. “You poor, dear man! Too knackered even for a tumble. Here! Let me tend you.” And she busied herself pouring more wine into his glass, stirring up the fire, and plumping a cushion behind his back. David forced a smile for her as she finally left with another giggling smile, and the room was finally quiet again.

  He finished his glass of wine and stared into the now-roaring fire. Good God. No matter how hard he probed his memory, this rustic inn and the plump little serving girl remained stubbornly vague. He must have been here only two or three months past, while he and Percy were jaunting about the countryside avoiding London, Marcus, counterfeiters, and Percy’s overbearing father. They’d meant to go to Italy, but Percy had lost half of his funds on a cockfight and David, of course, had had none. A series of inns and taverns blurred together in his mind, soaked with wine and populated with women like the maid who’d just left. Only…he couldn’t remember most of it. His memories only became clear at the point when he’d returned to London and gotten soundly beaten. That, he remembered with painful clarity; his broken rib was still tender.

  But that was in the past. He was determined to do better in the future. Beginning tomorrow, when he would rise at first light and hire a horse for the remaining bit of his journey, no matter how much his body and head might ache. He would devote himself to Marcus’s business, tidy up his own affairs as well, and survive this episode a changed man, reformed and respectable.

  And the first order of business was retrieving his ring.

  Chapter Three

  “You bloody idiot!” Vivian Beecham was so furious with her brother she could have hit him. “What the devil were you thinking? Or were you even thinking at all? Sure, and it didn’t look like it to me!”

  Simon scowled and hunched further into the corner where he sat. “It wasn’t so bad, Viv. If that bugger of a mark hadn’t been so bull-headed—”

  “Then what, you’d have slipped a knife into him and got us all hanged for murder?” She paced back and forth in front of him, her black skirts swinging. “It was a ruddy stupid thing to do and you know it,” she said in fury. “Are you trying to get us hanged?”

  “No,” he muttered. His lower lip trembled, and he scuffed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I thought the extra blunt would come in handy. I was only trying to help, Viv.”

  She sighed and ran her hands over her head, trying to rein in her temper. The sad thing was, Simon was telling the truth. He was only trying to help. He didn’t mean to do everything wrong, he just couldn’t help it. There was no question that her brother was simply not cut out to be a highwayman. “I know, Si,” she said more kindly. “But you’re not to think—you’re just to do what we planned. What good can that ring do us? Chances are, we’ll have to get it melted down to be able to sell it, and we’ll have to find someone who won’t ask questions to melt it for us. It gains us nothing, does it? The watches, the smaller jewels, and especially the money—that’s all we want. Things that can be sold in a hurry, and that won’t be easily traced to us. Because I’d rather not dance at the end of a rope, thank you very kindly.”

  “I’m sorry,” her brother whispered, now thoroughly cowed. “I’m just dense, is all.”

  “You’re not that dense,” she said with another sigh. “But when I remind you what to do, in the midst of a job, and you shove me to the ground, I’d like to drop a brick on your head.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I ought not to have done that.”

  “At least you realize it now.” Vivian closed her eyes, counting as high as she could. She crouched down so her eyes were level with Simon’s. “Look at me,” she commanded. Simon did so, warily. “I’m trying, Si, I truly am,” she whispered. “But you’ve got to follow my lead in this until we come up with something better—”

  “I ought to slit your throat, you ruddy fool,” boomed an irate voice above them. Vivian shot to her feet.

  “I’ve already scolded him, Flynn,” she said.

  The big man glar
ed at her. “For all the good it does. He’s trouble, he is, and I don’t fancy waiting for him to get us all killed. You know they hang people for stealing, don’t you?” he demanded of Simon, as indignantly as a parson might. Flynn’s indignation, though, was for the fact that thieves like him were hanged, and not for the fact that they stole.

  “He knows,” said Vivian sharply. She might privately agree with every word he said, and not hesitate to give Simon a brutal dressing down herself, but she would defend her brother to the death before Flynn. Simon would have done the same for her, had the places been reversed, and besides, it was Vivian’s fault Simon had been pressed into stealing anyway.

  Flynn’s jaw worked for a moment. “You’re a right lucky bloke,” he said to Simon. “If not for your sister, you’d have already been found belly-up in the river.”

  Simon flushed dull red with anger. He wasn’t a child to be cowed by Flynn’s threats anymore, Vivian realized. Her brother would soon be seventeen, a man old enough to give in to his temper and a man big enough to think he could take on Flynn.

  “What’s done is done,” she said, trying to end the argument. “You’ll not cut his throat and he’ll not make such a mistake again.” I hope, she added silently. Flynn still glared at Simon.

  “What about his take?”

  Vivian raised her eyebrows. She was not going to let Flynn cheat her out of Simon’s share of the profits. “What of it? He was there, he gets a share.”

  “It might have been a larger take if he’d done what he’s told and not gone after that bloke,” said Flynn. Vivian saw he was holding the ring that had caused all the trouble, and was rolling it around in his hand.

  “I’ll get rid of the ring,” she said, putting out her hand. “Give it to me. We’re near enough to London, there are a hundred places to sell it unnoticed. I’ll give the usual tale and we’ll have an extra profit. It’s worth a mint.”

  Flynn kept the ring. “I don’t know.”