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  THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER, VOLUME TWO:

  MR. DALRYMPLE REVEALED

  Copyright 2012 Lydia M. Sheridan

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  THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER, VOLUME TWO:

  MR. DALRYMPLE REVEALED

  Her single candle barely illuminated the thick darkness of the stairwell as Kate tiptoed down to the kitchen in stockinged feet. At the landing, she paused, tapped an age-darkened door twice, twice more, then twice again. The reply came: three soft knocks. Reassured, she eased on down the stairs. At the scullery door, she blew out her candle, lifted the latch, and slipped out. It closed without a sound on well-oiled hinges.

  Her breath caught and held in the clear night, an unseasonable coolness speaking of the coming autumn. Overhead, clouds obscured the moon and another shiver of apprehension skittered down her spine. Every instinct told her tonight was not a night to gamble, but if the mortgage payment wasn’t paid, the house of cards she’d carefully built up would tumble down. Bertie wouldn’t be able to go to school, Lucy would end up marrying Awful Adam, and Horrible Uncle Oliver would split the children up and distribute them as charity cases to various relatives. So despite her qualms, she pulled on a worn pair of dancing slippers and trudged to the stables. Luckily it’s no longer raining, she thought. And just as if on cue, she heard an ominous rumble of thunder in the distance.

  Yes, someone was definitely trying to tell her something. A smart woman would head back to bed. However, Kate was also a desperate woman, and she did not allow her steps to falter.

  By the time she reached the stables, her natural good spirits had reasserted themselves. She was a woman of the modern age, she assured herself, not a believer of superstitions and black magic. She crossed her fingers just in case and soldiered on.

  The routine was so familiar Kate needed no other light than the pale moon shining between scudding clouds to unearth her disguise from underneath a loose board in the tack room. Silently, with the ease of much practice, she pulled on the grey wool breeches, doublet and full-skirted coat, and covered the whole with a grey wool cloak. The fabric was slightly moth-eaten, but it covered her from chin to knee and had a way of swirling in the wind which was both ghostly and sinister, a highly satisfactory effect.

  With her height, so unfashionable in a female, combined with a great deal of buckram wadding in the shoulders of the coat, most would take her not for a highwayman, but a bruiser of considerable proportions. She gave her red hair a quick tuck under a wig of blonde, shoulder-length curls, attached a fake beard and moustache to her face with a smear of spirit gum, and clapped upon her head an old-fashioned hat with dancing grey plumes.

  There. Not even the closest of her acquaintance would know her as the latest in a long line of Grey Cavaliers. For almost two centuries, these men (and now woman) had been the scourge of the King’s Highway, the despair of the local constabulary, and the romantic ideal of adolescent chits. It was really a local tradition, Kate would often rationalize on those occasions when her conscience pricked her.

  In the flicker of a pig’s whisker, Kate saddled and bridled her trusty mare, Diana, and smeared lamp black liberally over her three white socks. Shoving two pistols in the saddle bag and a wicked-looking dagger in her boot, Kate swung up into the saddle and they were off.

  Horse and rider had lived near the village of Oaksley all their lives. There was no wood, meadow, or cobbled street that they didn’t know like the back of their hands (or hooves). Kate hardly had to guide the big horse to the ancient oak near the river.

  Now came the worst part of any job. Waiting and watching, straining to hear the sound of the approaching carriage. It gave Kate too much leisure to imagine the deadly consequences: a bullet to the heart, or worse, a clap on the shoulder from the long arm of the law; being hauled off to gaol and having to watch the looks on her family’s faces as the noose was placed around her neck—.No, definitely a swift end would be preferable. Kate pulled her cloak tightly about her neck and waited.

  This night the wait seemed interminable because of the cold and wet.

  On the one hand, it helped to muffle sounds. On the other, the puddles reflected the moonlight, threatening the secrecy of her hiding place, so that Kate wished for the nice, heavy rain to begin again. Still, on the other hand—.

  She was running out of hands.

  As they waited, rigid with anticipation, the wind picked up, lashing the branches of the huge old tree into a frenzy. A few crumpled leaves swirled to the ground, black spots on the lighter mud. Her throat constricted with fear. Dead leaves could not possibly be a good omen when one plans to rob the next coach coming over the hill.

  Kate’s nervousness increased, transferring to Diana. When an owl screeched, screamingly loud in the silence, hear heart leapt into her throat and she flinched, jerking at the reins. Diana shied, tossing her head. She wasn’t used to such missish behavior from her mistress.

  Neither was her mistress.

  Trembling more than her horse, Kate reached forward to pat her neck. “Easy, girl. Easy there.” The sound of her voice, steady and calm, insensibly reassured them both. Gradually, Kate’s fear began to subside, replaced by a ripple of exhilaration up her spine, that thrill of anticipation whetting her appetite for the danger she courted. It was at such moments as this that she understood why men went to war.

  Far in the distance the church bells tolled, crystal clear in the cold air.

  Midnight.

  As her informant had promised, from far in the distance a yellow glow appeared. After a time, the glow became two thin beams of light. Diana pricked up her ears, pawing the ground excitedly. Kate leaned forward, straining to hear the muffled clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the metallic jingle of harness borne on the chilly wind. Another minute, Another gust brought the faint creak of carriage wheels coming ever close, ever louder.

  Her last bit of nervousness vanished. This was no game for the chicken-hearted. All Kate felt was her heart pounding with exhilaration. The light from the carriage lamps disappeared as the coach dipped down the hill. They had two minutes.

  With heightened calm, Kate drew two old pistols from the saddle bag. Fashioned for dueling, they were silver-chased and perfectly balanced. She hadn’t had to shoot anyone yet, thank heaven. So far, the mere threat had been enough to keep her victims in line.

  Thrusting one in her waistband, the other in the saddle holster, she tied a grey silk scarf over her eyes and nose. With two holes cut for her to see, the only part of her not disguised were her hands. Like Diana’s socks, they were smeared with lamp-black. Despite the cold, Kate needed her fingers free to control the pistols. Custom-made for her grandfather, they were too large for her hands. One of these days she was going to drop one during the middle of a robbery and then she really might shoot someone.

  Still as a couple of corpses, they waited, poised at the ready. Through the blood thrumming in her ears, Kate could only just hear the muffled clatter of hooves as the carriage drew ever closer to the top of the rise.

  With aching slowness, she urged Diana forward. Silently, horse and rider crept up the incline behind the hedgerow just after the crest of the hill. So single-minded was her purpose that not a tremble caused the pearl-handled pistol in her hand to waver. Every nerve and muscle was poised for the attack.

  The heavy old coach creaked and gro
und up the final lap of the hill, swinging ponderously around the last curve several hundred yards from their hiding place.

  Quickly, Kate clapped her heels to Diana’s flanks. Giving a hoarse shout, she fired into the night sky and horse and rider sprang from the bushes, galloping flat out toward the oncoming coach.

  The crack of the shot was deafening in the silent night. The coachman fought to keep control of the rearing team. In a fine flurry of dancing plumes and swirling cape, Kate pulled up short barely a yard in front of the plunging horses.

  Diana reared, snorting and tossing her head, and the terrified coachman gave up the battle. His eyes rolled back in his head as he slid quietly to the ground in a dead faint. One of the leaders got a leg over a trace and the team came to an uneasy halt.

  With a practiced flourish, Kate pulled out the second pistol from her saddle holster and shoved the spent pistol in its place.

  “Stand and deliver, poltroon, lest ye welter in your own blood this night!” Kate roared in her best highwayman voice.

  “My dear—ah—felon,” lisped a refined tone. “Surely this drama is all too—er—dramatic.”

  And out of the coach stepped a very long leg, shod in the most elegant of Hessian boots and tightest of breeches, followed languidly by as overpowering a dandy as Kate had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Since this afternoon, anyway. She rolled her eyes in disgust as she recognized the impudent coxcomb from the Coffee Shoppe.

  From the top of his brilliantly oiled locks to shirt points so high they threatened his cheeks with impalement, to the wondrous arrangement of his cravat, studded with a gaudy stickpin, to the greatcoat fluttery with capes, his raiment screamed affiliation with the veriest Pinks of the ton.

  Kate’s lip curled with contempt even as she leveled the barrel of the pistol between his eyes. She’d have no trouble at all with this—this mincing macaroni merchant.

  “Quite unnecessary, too,” he went on, gazing disinterestedly through a jewel-encrusted quizzing glass at the form of the coachman sprawled inelegantly on the road. “The—um—poltroon went out faster than a candle in a lightskirt’s bedroom.”

  “Stubble it,” Kate ordered gruffly, gesturing with the pistol, but the exquisite seemed not to notice. He was anxiously inspecting the high gloss of his boots, visible even in the dark, for any speck of dirt, or, horrid thought! a scratch.

  A movement on the coach drew Kate’s attention and her pistol. The guard, looking no more than a boy in the moonlight, peeked prudently over the roof of the coach. Before he had time to point the heavy blunderbuss he carried, he was staring down the muzzle of Kate’s gun.

  “Unhand your weapon or your master sleeps with the angels this night!”

  The guard blinked. “Wha—?”

  The gentleman sighed, gesturing with a fine lawn handkerchief.

  “Dear me. I believe, my boy, this Knight of the Road desires you to put down your weapon. At the risk of displaying a vulgar selfishness, perhaps you might do as he asks.”

  The boy laid down his old-fashioned gun and awaited further instructions.

  “See to the horses,” Kate barked. Obediently, the lad scrambled toward Diana. “Not mine, you idiot!”

  The gentleman yawned delicately into soft, white fingers.

  “What an excellent suggestion,” he approved. “Although perhaps you are being overgenerous categorizing these gluepots as horses.” He watched with sleepy eyes, so bored he seemed barely able to stay awake, as the guard managed to untangle and calm the trembling animals. “Still, we are all God’s creatures.”

  “One more word out of you, my fine buck, and I shoot just for the joy of it.”

  “Such violence in the world today. It grieves me.” He stifled another yawn and picked a speck of lint off his sleeve.

  Thoroughly exasperated, Kate waved the pistol menacingly. “Your glass. Your purse. Your watch and fobs. Hand them over and you shall live to see the morrow!” she ordered, keeping one eye on the boy.

  The dainty tulip adjusted the brim of his curled beaver just so. “And if I refuse?”

  Really, the man was beginning to try her patience.

  “Then I shall shoot you down like the dog you are!” This got his attention like nothing else she’d said.

  “Good God!” he said severely. “That would ruin the set of my jacket!”

  Kate said nothing, merely jerking her head to the guard, indicating he should climb back on the coach. Unlike the complaining dandy in front of her, he complied instantly.

  “I shall report this to the Regent himself. Such goings on will not be tolerated,” the popinjay fussed.

  Kate cocked the hammer on the pistol and took careful aim between his eyes. This apparently decided him. Letting his quizzing glass dangle from its ribbon, he turned out his pockets.

  “Hurry,” she snapped. Her voice was becoming raspy from shouting at the wrong pitch and her nerves were completely on edge. This was fast turning into the strangest robbery she’d ever perpetrated.

  With a murmur of slightly vexed boredom, the gentleman finally obliged, offering Kate the booty in one large, beautifully manicured hand.

  His compliance rendered her one significant problem. To whit: how to take the valuables without letting go of an unusually restive Diana, or lowering the pistol. Usually, her victims were sufficiently cowed, or excited, that the weapon was no longer necessary. Kate’s irritation intensified. It was a great deal easier, she fumed inwardly, to hold up a carriage when one’s prey stays inside the coach where they belong. Many even considered it an honor and privilege to be robbed by so famous a highwayman. Kate eyed her victim with increasing dislike.

  “Ah, these dilemmas we must all face,” he murmured soulfully. “Perhaps if I advance—oh, quite slowly, I assure you—to place these trifles in your saddlebag—” His words trailed off as if the effort was much too great.

  Every instinct shouted at Kate to flee, but pride and a need to pay the mortgage kept her rooted to the spot. She’d never failed yet to come home with booty, and she wasn’t about to turn tail at this coxcomb.

  At a loss for the first time in her illustrious career, Kate nodded curtly.

  “But don’t think to play me for a fool,” she warned, trying to regain the upper hand. “Many’s the man I’ve shot for no more than the lint in his pocket.”

  The gentleman did no more than blink at this bloodcurdling boast and minced forward, one hand outstretched with the spoils.

  Diana, unsure about this unusual development, tossed her head and danced a bit. Kate tightened her hold on the reins, giving a throaty murmur to calm her horse. She held the pistol aimed steadily at the buck’s head as he sauntered toward her and unbuckled the saddlebag. Kate didn’t take her eyes off him for an instant.

  Except for one second when the edge of the silk scarf delicately touched her lashes, tickling unbearably. Instinctively, she squinted and threw up her arm to rub at the offending lashes.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the fop seized his chance. His right hand shot out, crashing into the small of her back. With a grunt of pain, Kate fell forward onto Diana’s neck, only to be wrenched backwards with a bone-shaking jerk. His fingers dug into her cravat, snapping her head painfully, crushing her windpipe in an unmerciful grip.

  Gasping for breath, Kate dropped the reins, clawing frantically at her throat. The pistol dropped unnoticed from her grip, hitting the ground just as the gentleman dragged her bodily out of the saddle. An earsplitting crack shattered the night. Orange flame shot out of the muzzle as the pistol exploded.

  For an instant, all was still. Then Diana reared and galloped off into the blackness of the wood. The guard looked as though he would have liked to do the same, but a command from the gentleman had him running once more to see to the horses.

  Kate’s former victim threw her unceremoniously to the ground, wrenched her arm behind her back, and knelt none too gently on her legs. Terrified at the thought of being unmasked and helpless to escape his supe
rior strength, all those hours spent in deportment lessons at Miss Haver’s Academy For Young Ladies came back to her and Kate did what any gently-bred female would do under the circumstances: she pretended to swoon.

  Her captor bellowed an order to the coachman, just coming out of his own faint.

  “You, man! I need some rope to tie him up.”

  Experimentally, Kate opened one eye the veriest slit. When no mud oozed in, she opened it a bit wider and took stock of the situation. The driver was sitting in the road, rubbing his temple. With a low groan, he motioned to the carriage. The gentleman, languid no longer, dashed to the door and wrenched it open.

  It was with the most exquisite pleasure that Kate heard the unmistakable sound of a head hitting the top of the door jamb with a hollow thump. She glanced about again. In the bright moonlight, she could see the coachman holding the blunderbuss while the guard stood to the horses’ heads, so she bided her time, awaiting a chance to escape.

  A search of the coach proving abortive, the gentleman ripped off his and the coachman’s neckcloths, and, quicker than one could say, “Skullduggery on the King’s Highway!” Kate was trussed up neatly as a chicken meant for roasting.

  The chicken, as one might imagine, was mad as a hornet. She should have made a dash for it when she’d had the opportunity, she fumed, her wig slipping ever so slightly to the side. Odds were the coachman would have missed a moving figure in the moonlight. Now, foiled by her own cleverness and the deportment lessons of Miss Havers, Kate was in greater peril than ever. Mentally cursing that blameless woman, she frantically thought for a way out.

  By now Kate was so demoralized it was almost a relief when her attacker picked her up and dumped her carelessly on the floor of the coach. She lay where she fell, filthy, shaking, and wet, and wondered if the condemned were allowed a nice coal fire before their execution. Before she could get her bearings, the door opened once more. Kate looked up, ready for battle, but only her hat sailed through the door to land on her shoulder, both much the worse for wear.

  However, it was not for nothing that the Thoreaus came from a long line of soldiers, statesmen, and scapegraces, and Kate’s usual spirits swiftly reasserted themselves. Twisting to get a more comfortable position, her mind raced to form a plan to forestall the inevitable unmasking.