The Counterfeit Cavalier, Volumes One Through Four: The Complete Edition Read online

  THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER

  Volumes One through Four:

  The Complete Edition

  BY

  LYDIA M. SHERIDAN

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2013 by Lydia M. Sheridan

  The Counterfeit Cavalier, Volume One:

  The Highwayman Came Riding

  The bullet exploded from the pistol in a shower of sparks, shattering the calm of the peaceful spring night. The heavy coach lurched to a halt, tossing the four ladies inside hither and thither.

  They shrieked. The horses reared. On the box, Smithers swore fluently, shocking John Coachman more than the pistol shot. The Countess nodded reassuringly to her daughter, Lady Jeanne. Mrs. Kendall smiled, trembling, at her daughter, Miss Letitia. Materializing out of the fog, the highwayman shouted, “Stand and deliver!”

  Everyone froze.

  Once more the ladies screamed. Uncaring of torn muslins or disheveled locks, bumps or bruises, the four disentangled themselves, sat up, and hastened to unclasp necklaces, unpin brooches, and pull off rings.

  The girls whimpered in fright, near tears. The Countess muttered under her breath. The Earl had ridden ahead that instead of choosing to protect his family from road bandits. Her grim expression informed all that her lord and master would come to regret this dereliction of duty.

  John Coachman emitted a grunt as he struggled, his arms full of a furious ladies maid.

  "Are ye daft, Smithers? Jump at him and he’s like to blow your brain box to bits!”

  When the highwayman rode up to the circle of light caused by the carriage lamps, it was clear why the coachman had failed to use his blunderbuss.

  To his victims, the bandit seemed to float on a legless horse in a sea of low, swirling fog. It was hard to discern where the man began and the mist ended. He was the color of smoke, all in grey, from the dancing plumes on his hat to the leather boots on his feet. His eyes and nose were hidden by a silk scarf, his shoulders were broad and straight. The grin above his pointed beard was merry, his hand, with the pistol aimed directly at the Countess’ heart, did not waver.

  “Dear ladies, tragic circumstance has compelled me here tonight, not as I should wish, that of the gallant to enjoy your charming company, but rather a recipient of your gracious charity. Would that it were otherwise, but still I throw myself upon the generosity of your good nature,” he declaimed all in one breath.

  John Coachman scratched his head. Smithers snorted. The ladies, relieved that the rogue seemed disinclined to fire or claim their virtue, warmed toward him. But Smithers, raised in a family of smugglers, didn’t give a brass farthing for such a frippery fellow, and went so far as to bellow, “Don’t you be a'feared of this barstid, milady. Do you need help wi’ yer lid?”

  The highwayman made a sound which in a more social situation might have been a laugh, and sidled his enormous horse close to the carriage window. He had recognized the crest on the door. Felon he might be, but foolish he wasn’t. He had no intention whatever of trying to pawn so famous an entailed piece as the Malford tiara.

  “Dearest lady,” he cried in a low, raspy voice. “Only the veriest dastard would see fit to steal such a beloved piece of jewelry. Though, alas, my present circumstances have brought me low as the dust under your dainty feet, I ask only to relieve you of those pieces which you shall not miss.”

  At this gallant speech, the Countess turned pink enough to glow in the darkness. Abandoning the tiara so that it rested rakishly over her forehead, she unpinned the brooch at her bosom instead.

  Moments later, several hands, seemingly disembodied in the mist, thrust out the windows, full of glittering gems. With a gracious bow, the highwayman magnanimously accepted a necklace of coral and one of pearls, a diamond and ruby brooch, a stomacher with emeralds the size of pigeon eggs, and a ring of gold and seed pearls. This trumpery affair he handed back with exquisite grace.

  “Your ring, madam?” He returned in to Lady Jeanne. “Never shall circumstances, no matter how tragic, compel me to take that which is nearest to your heart!” Thrusting the rest of the loot in his saddlebag, the gentleman plucked off his hat and pressed it to his chest.

  The girls giggled, casting looks at his wide shoulders. The ladies sighed over his gallantry.

  “How did he know it was my birthday ring from Papa?” whispered Lady Jeanne, awed. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dashing blade. Getting robbed was so romantic!

  The highwayman clapped his hat back on his long, guinea-gold curls, so different from modern fashions, gestured thrillingly with a hand too small for one of his size, and turned his horse to depart.

  “Oh, please to wait, sir!”

  He paused, turning in the saddle to see Mrs. Kendall’s face at the carriage window. “Madam, you may command me." He bowed once more.

  “The locket,” she whispered huskily. “My locket. It has a miniature of my mother. I’ve not had it from around my neck since the day she died. I beg of you, sir--”

  “My lady,” he cried gallantly, pulling the hitherto unnoticed piece from his bag. “You have but to ask and I am your slave! This precious object I return to you. In exchange, I beg only to kiss the hand of the lovely lady who wears it.”

  So saying, he leapt from the saddle, presented to locket to Mrs. Kendall, and took her hand in his, gracefully kissing the air above it.

  “Kind sir,” called Miss Letitia. “May we not know your name?”

  The rascal grinned, causing a flutter in the bosoms of all save Smithers.

  “My name is of no import, madam. Know only that I am forever in your gracious debt.”

  The highwayman swept off his hat, made them a magnificent leg, winked cheekily at Smithers, then swung up in the saddle. One last tip of his hat and he was gone, vanished into the swirling fog.

  Over the sound of retreating hoofbeats, a hollow shout was heard: “For King and for country!”

  As was typical, it was the Countess who first recovered.

  “Drive on,” she hollered out the carriage window. The coach started with a jerk. From up top the box, there were anxious squawks from Smithers.

  “Yes, Smithers, we are quite unhurt, thank you. No, John Coachman is not a pudding heart. He did quite right not to fire. Who knows what violence we might have suffered at that villain’s hand had he felt threatened.”

  At her mention of the word 'hand,' the women’s gaze flew to Mrs. Kendall, whose hand, saluted with such courtesy by the bandit, was now pressed to her cheek. She had a dreamy look in her eyes.

  “Matilda,” began her ladyship awfully, “there is no need to become totty-headed about some common criminal--”

  Mrs. Kendall smiled serenely. “Gladys, he was far from common. And there is no need for you to be jealous. He complimented you on your dainty feet.”

  “True.” Mollified, the Countess allowed herself a moment of romance before she snapped back to reality. Uncertainly, she said, “He had very small hands, don’t you think? Almost--well, almost like a woman’s.”

  Mrs. Kendall frowned, unwilling for her dream to end. “He was utterly masculine. I could tell the moment his lips touched my hand.”

  “Matilda, I was right beside you the entire time, and if his lips came within a foot of your hand, my name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  The girls, meanwhile, had been suspiciously quiet. Letitia thoughtfully bit her nails. Jeanne absently twirled a ringlet about her finger. Suddenly they turned as one and squealed.

  “The Grey Cavalier! T'was the Grey Cavalier come back from the grave!”


  This intriguing line of thought was brought to an abrupt halt as the coach once more stopped, this time in the light spilling from the open doorway of Appleby Manor. By dumb luck it chanced to shine through the coach window and Mrs. Kendall and the Countess finally saw, in all their snowy white glory, the very low décolletages of their daughters’ attire.

  “Jeanne!” her mother snorted terribly. “Your bosom!”

  For the moment, the Grey Cavalier was forgotten.

  ***

  This most recent incarnation of the Grey Cavalier was the first in thirty years. Napoleon had been dispatched for the second, and everyone hoped, last time, the villagers of Oaksley perhaps most of all. The local economy had been shattered by poor crops, cattle disease, and the return of men from the war with no jobs in sight. The reappearance of the Cavalier was seen as a welcome diversion at first, and a lifeline after that.

  The first robbery was in April. By May, children played Highwayman, filching black stockings from their mothers’ mending baskets and denuding the local fowl of feathers for their hats.

  By June, the entire county was in the throes of a vulgar passion for the engaging scamp. Young girls swooned and giggled, wearing ribbons of grey as a token of their gallant hero. Young men, anxious to be all the crack, tied their cravats in unsightly knots they proudly dubbed The Highwayman’s Fall. A few even went as far as to stick large grey plumes in their curled beavers.

  By July, though the debate had not been settled as to whether he was truly the Cavalier’s shade or simply a talented opportunist, the villagers had ceased to care. Shopkeepers, quick to capitalize on the revitalized legend, had begun to turn a healthy profit. Parents, devouring every morsel of news about the popular fellow in the newspapers, forgot to complain about the shocking influence he had brought to bear upon their offspring. The clergy, the staid Church of England Vicar Ramsdell and the hugely popular, but papist, Father Flannery, saw the prosperity of their flock, the renewed spirit of hope, and the money flowing into the churches' coffers, and kept their sermons focused on the goodness of charity, rather than the evils of theft.

  By August, the tiny village of Oaksley had become the most popular tourist attraction north of London. Even a few of the swells in the highest reaches of the Ten Thousand had abandoned their usual jaunts to Brighton to spend a few days touring the area inhabited by the most beloved highwayman since Claude Duvall.

  Thus it was one fine September morning that the Honorable Frederick Dalrymple strolled out of the village's only inn. The sign proclaimed it The Lady and the Scamp and sported a pleasing depiction of a woman kneeling before a gibbeted corpse. It cause him to wince slightly, as if the sight made his breakfast repast steak, eggs, and ale roil in his stomach. Luckily, Mr. Dalrymple was made of stern stuff. He was come to learn about the local hero, and learn he would, no matter the appalling art preferred by his landlord. However, he was dreadfully unprepared for the glories of a High Street devoted to nothing less than a ridiculous celebration of a lowly thief.

  The local worthies were also unprepared for the London dandy in their midst.

  They were most unused to the sight of a tall blond man, lean, though well-muscled, picking his way daintily down the cobblestones in coat and trousers of a delicate lavender hue and a waistcoat of the palest jonquil. When he frowned at the sun and unfurled a precious parasol, even Squire Appleby, widely known as the kindest man in the parish, couldn’t repress a snicker. The less said about the Douglas twins and their prowess with spitballs, the better.

  Mr. Dalrymple grandly ignored the rabble, tipped his hat to the pretty girls on the corner, and tripped up the street, regarding the populace with a seriousness at distinct variance to his dress.

  As he walked, he idly read the shop signs hanging at right angles into the street. One caught his attention, and he paused, stared, jammed a quizzing glass in his eye, and stared again.

  It was a tobacconist’s, where Mr. Dalrymple could, if he chose, purchase the same blend of snuff used by The Late, Great Cavalier (presumably when that gentleman was amongst the living). As an added inducement, a favored customer might also gaze upon a genuine relic of the gentleman: a snuffbox stolen by the highwayman and carried, so the sign grandly proclaimed, to the scaffold by the Cavalier "upon the Tragick Occasion of His Death By Order of An Unsympathetic Jurye." Already there were a number of men, tourists by the look of them, lined up at the counter inside, purses in hand.

  Unaccountably annoyed, for it was none of his affair how the rubes wasted their blunt, Mr. Dalrymple crammed the glass back in his pocket and toddled on, reading the signs more carefully.

  Hanging above the millinery shop was a sign proclaiming, in execrable French, to be La Chapeaus du Cavalier, where the discerning lady could purchase any and all accessories for her wardrobe, including a hat in the latest mode: The Highwayman’s Chapeau, a frothy confection consisting of nothing more than a bunch of lace and yards of grey ribbon, accessorized by a passel of plumes in that exciting new shade, Silver Ghost.

  Mr. Dalrymple frowned. Now that he thought of it, half the village seemed to be sporting grey hats, grey cravats, grey ribbons and laces.

  Half mourning. How cheerful.

  Across the street, yet another shop announced itself as the Buttons, Bow, and Bandits Drapery Emporium, Established 1595, which proudly claimed to have supplied all the personal fabric needs of the Cavalier. Fascinated, Mr. Dalrymple wondered what sort of “fabric needs” a gentleman of that ilk might find necessary.

  The tulip, his rugged features contorted into an awkward simper, looked wildly about for a refuge. None was visible, so he sighed and strode to the Brigands and Buns Coffee Shoppe. Halfway across the street, he swallowed an oath and shortened his stride to a mince.

  At the doorway, he paused to shudder when confronted with the sea green floral interior. Bravely, for his ensemble clashed dreadfully with the decor, he managed to totter just far enough to collapse into a chair at a table in the center of the room.

  Having just come from his morning meal, Mr. Dalrymple waved away the serving girl’s offer of something called The Rascal’s Repast, asking only for tea.

  While he sat waiting, he gently fanned himself with a fine, lace-trimmed handkerchief and listened discreetly to the conversations swirling about the room.

  When the girl set teapot and cup before him, Mr. Dalrymple asked the question which any normal human being might.

  “And just who is this Grey Cavalier fellow?” he lisped roguishly.

  A hush fell over the room. Every head in the place turned to stare.

  The girl’s mouth dropped open. “The Cavalier--why, sir, they do say--that is, why, he’s just the most wunnerful person as ever lived in these parts, don’t you know.” Obviously believing herself to have relieved his curiosity, she bobbed a curtsy, looked enviously at his parasol, and went to wait on the next customers.

  A chubby farmer’s wife took pity on his ignorance. “According to the legend--”

  Other voices chimed in.

  “E’s like Robin 'ood, 'e is, a'robbin’ the rich--”

  “--gives every penny to the poor--”

  “--threw dice with the Baron, right in the road--”

  “--heard tell he danced a jig with the Duchess of--”

  “--most courteous and genteel of men!”

  The chorus stopped, smiling at him expectantly.

  Considerably more confused than before, the fop in their midst nodded wisely and took refuge behind the teapot.

  Afraid to ask more questions, he sipped slowly, eavesdropping on the conversation of several young ladies behind him. Consisting of whether or not the Cavalier was more dashingly romantic than Lord Byron, it was singularly non-illuminating for his purposes.

  An ink-stained urchin rushed over to Mr. Dalrymple’s table. “Everything you want to know about the Cavalier is in this pamphlet, sir. Only fourpence.”

  “What!”

  The boy grinned. His two front teeth were
missing, but his clothes were clean but for the ink, and he looked well-fed. “It includes a list of tourist sites around the village, too. A bargain, I’d say.”

  “I’ll give you one penny.”

  “Fourpence.”

  “Tuppence.”

  “Fourpence.”

  “Thruppence and not a penny more.”

  “Fourpence.”

  Mr. Dalrymple knew when he was beaten. Muttering something about extortion, he surrendered the requisite coins and received a small pamphlet in return. As he turned the page, fresh ink rubbed off on his fingers. He sighed.

  The ruddy-faced man at the next table leaned over and said sympathetically, “He got me yesterday for a tanner.”

  “It’s highway robbery.”

  The man’s chuckle filled the room. “Aye, it is. So it is.”

  With a reluctant grin, Mr. Dalrymple buried his nose in the pamphlet and began to read The True and Amazing Historie of the Grey Cavalier.

  According to the author, the Grey Cavalier was probably Captain Henry (Harry) Harrison, son and heir of a wealthy aristocrat during the reign of Charles I. Having loyally, albeit ruinously, fought and died in his King’s cause, Mr. Harrison senior exhorted from his deathbed a promise that Harry continue the struggle on behalf of the exiled Charles II.

  Being that there was nothing for him to inherit, Royalist lands having been confiscated by Cromwell, young Harry, as did many of his ilk, took to the bridle-lay. For several years he was quite successful.

  A most amiable and openhanded gentleman, Captain Harrison was famed throughout the land for his courtesy toward ladies, his sporting willingness to play the occasional hand of whist for a man’s watch, and his deep dislike of lawyers and Roundheads. These he parted from their worldly goods with neither quip nor qualm.

  It was his parting shout, “For King and for country!” which sealed Harry’s fate. Cromwell, infuriated by the road bandits’ abiding loyalty to their exiled monarch, decided to make an example of Captain Harrison. A reward of one thousand pounds was offered for the capture of the Grey Cavalier, dead or alive.