Page 21 of Escape of the Highwayman (Escape #3)

I t did not take Jon longer than a couple of hours in the Horse’s Head to discover who had held up the gentleman on the Brighton road near Greater Lessing.

Among the petty thieves, smugglers, pimps and fences who frequented the hostelry, a gent of the High Toby was the ranking villain, and the denizens were proud of the acquaintance.

“Laughed like a drain, old Whitey did, when he heard those daft constables mistook a complete stranger for him and hauled him off. He’ll hang now, poor bugger, and old Whitey’ll go from strength to strength. You mark my words.”

Len Whitey, it seemed was a handsome cove in his prime with a fine set of barkers—pistols—stolen long ago in his first hold-up where he had employed an ancient blunderbuss, or so the story went.

He had fair hair and a grey horse and was, apparently, quite the coming man, having killed a couple of coves, including one of his own accomplices, in London before the city became too dangerous for him and he expanded into country highway robbery.

Whitey had, apparently, headed back toward Brighton to take advantage of his freedom while the other poor cove paid the price. And no doubt to fence his loot in Brighton while the nobs were there for summer. More rich pickings...

Jon’s informant may or may not have been giving accurate information about Whitey’s direction, but Jon left with enough to track him down.

Between them, Jon, Harvey and Sydney were not inexperienced at reconnaissance and intelligence gathering, and by nightfall when they met again after riding in different directions, they had narrowed their quarry’s road down to one.

For Whitey was indeed taking advantage of his freedom, when no one was looking for him, leaving a trail of stolen food, unpaid for beer, and even a drunken fight in which the other man had come off worse.

“Got him,” Jon said with some satisfaction. “Now we just need to catch him.”

***

L EN WHITEY WAS RATHER enjoying his spree.

Until the arrest of the gull at the Horse’s Head, he had made some effort to be relatively discreet.

Especially since he had heard there was a Bow Street runner in the area.

But it was not in his nature, as London well knew, and it was something of a relief to break out of his self-imposed discipline and rampage through farms and inns like the ferocious bull he always felt he was.

Not that he intended to hang around for the consequences. It was time to move on, perhaps to some northern city like York or Newcastle, or even Edinburgh and Glasgow. Unless he had the chance of sailing to Dublin—that might work best of all.

All the same, with a bellyful of ale and gin, it was not easy to haul himself out of his bed in the morning.

Well, technically the bed belonged to the widow who ran the Roaring Lion Inn, and he didn’t quite trust her to keep her trap shut when he wasn’t present.

So, he rose, saddled his horse, and set off back to the Brighton road, where he planned to combine a bit of highway robbery with his journey.

In Brighton itself, he already knew an excellent fence who would pay well for the fine collection of gewgaws in his saddle bag.

Fate, it seemed, still smiled upon him, for he had not gone far before he came upon a perfect gull under the rising sun.

The solitary gentleman was sitting by the side of the road, apparently enjoying an al fresco breakfast while his horse grazed at the scrubby grass.

He wore a decent hat, and his coat, though crumpled, was fine in both cut and cloth.

While munching what looked like bread and cheese, the silly young man appeared to be counting the gleaming coins from his purse, which he was laying out in little piles in front of him.

Manna from heaven. A rich idiot, alone and clearly friendly by nature. What was more, a walking stick lay beside him and Whitey noticed that one of his legs seemed overly stiff, wasted perhaps, so he was unlikely to give much trouble, physically speaking.

“Morning,” this perfect victim greeted him with a nod and a smile. “Another fine one, I believe.”

“It is that, your honour,” Whitey agreed, at his most amiable.

He even touched his own, much less reputable, hat.

He looked forward to exchanging headgear with his new friend.

Whitey had slowed his horse to a walk at first sight of the gent, but now he halted the animal altogether as though stopping for a chat.

There seemed to be no hurry. “On your way to Brighton, sir?”

“Not very sure, to be honest. I’ve had to change my plans.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Care to join me for breakfast?” his new friend offered. “The bread is new and the cheese pretty good.”

“Why that’s most kind of your honour, and I don’t mind if I do.” Whitey swung down from the saddle, knowing his horse would wait where he was left, alert and ready—unlike this gull’s mount who seemed entirely focused on the grass.

As he walked the few paces to his mark, he lurched a bit, for his legs had stiffened up again even in that brief ride.

Still, the unevenness of his gait presented the perfect cover for reaching inside his coat, from which he extracted one of the fine duelling pistols that had been his friends for many years.

“Just gather up the coins into the purse,” Whitey instructed, “and I’ll take it out of your way.”

“Such kindness one encounters on the road,” said the young man without looking up.

Whitey cocked his pistol, and this did draw the man’s attention, though he still showed no fear. Instead, he gestured Whitey to sit as though they were at some elaborate Venetian breakfast.

Whitey grinned and knelt, his right hand steady on his pistol, his left already reaching for the coins and the purse. But he had no sooner touched them with the tips of his fingers than something whipped agonizingly down on his hand.

Surprise made him cry out and jerk his hand away from the coins, just as his other hand felt a similar sting, and his pistol flew through the air to land in the road.

Instinctively, he reached for the matching weapon inside his coat pocket, and found his way blocked by a walking stick jabbing into his chest.

A walking stick?

“Tut,” said the young man disapprovingly.

And bloody hell, the cove had moved fast. He must have seized the stick, whacked Whitey’s left hand with it and brought it whipping straight back up with enough force to knock the pistol from his unsuspecting right hand.

It all left Whitey feeling dazed and slightly numb—and sore.

Which was no doubt why he was letting a mere walking stick prevent him from taking out his pistol and shooting the bastard.

“You just signed your own death warrant,” he snarled, knocking the stick aside, “you cocky little p—”

He broke off as something cold rammed against the back of his head. He knew exactly what it was, for it came with the unmistakeable sound of a firearm mechanism. He froze.

An unseen hand removed his second pistol. A third man with a hook for a hand and a saddle bag under his arm was picking up the first pistol from the road, snagging it on his hook.

The cove behind him was tying his hands behind his back. The supposedly gullible young man who had just gulled Whitey, reached causally for the saddle bag which the hook-handed fellow had just dumped at his feet.

Staring at it, Whitey finally recognized it as his. “Here!” he spluttered. “That’s mine!”

The fair young man grinned. “It might be. But I very much doubt the contents are.” He rummaged inside with some interest. “Victory,” he said flippantly. “Noddock will go free, and you, my friend, will stand trial. That is the fair part.”

“What’s the unfair part, Captain?” asked the man who had finished tying his hands and had now moved around to his ankles.

“Why that the rest of us will not. God willing.”

***

C HLOE REGARDED HERSELF in the long looking glass of her bedchamber, struck for the first time by her odd appearance. She blinked. “What am I again?”

“A shepherdess,” Mama said, frowning in the mirror.

“In diamonds and sapphires?”

“Oh, use your imagination,” Mama said impatiently.

“Glistening teardrops,” Chloe said. “Or drops of rain.”

“Exactly,” Mama said, mollified. She was dressed in powdered wig and huge, hooped skirts as a rather magnificent noble lady of the previous century.

“And it is a good excuse to show off your pretty hair in that simple style,” Celia said encouragingly, “Besides, after the unmasking, you will look even more ravishing.”

Chloe glanced doubtfully at her sister, an exotic if well-covered Queen Cleopatra with kohl around her eyes. “Me?”

Celia laughed. “Yes, you! Mr. Black will be enchanted.”

“I doubt it,” Chloe said. “I really don’t believe he can be manipulated as easily as you all seem to think. Shouldn’t Beatrice be wearing the diamond necklace?”

“Don’t be silly,” Beatrice said, resplendent as Queen Elizabeth. “It’s too short to wear with my ruff.”

“Don’t you think Mr. Black will be insulted to have a mere shepherdess pushed at him instead of a queen?” Chloe asked.

“A shepherdess in jewels,” Mama snapped. “Perfectly appropriate.”

Chloe met Beatrice’s gaze and twitched one eyebrow. Beatrice turned away.

Celia giggled. “Well, a mill worker would have been just a little too obvious.”

“He does not own mills, you know,” Beatrice said. “He is a banker.”

“What’s the difference?” Mama demanded. “He is a very wealthy man, and he has good manners. He will suit you very well, Chloe.”

“I doubt I suit him,” Chloe murmured, but no one was listening anymore.

“Masks, girls,” Mama ordered. “And don’t forget your domino cloaks!”

Celia handed Chloe the shepherd’s crook tied with a silk ribbon. “Stop thinking, Chlo. Just enjoy the evening.”

Chloe held the crook between her feet and tied on her mask, which at least hid some of her expression. “I will,” she said determinedly. “I am actually looking forward to it.”