Page 22 of Escape of the Highwayman (Escape #3)

She was, in fact, though not for the reasons her family imagined.

The prisoner Noddock was still in the cell below Ellscombe House and she needed to speak to him alone.

Depending on what he said, and on the character she was sure she would recognize, she might even help him to escape.

After all, if he was Jon Berry’s friend, how bad could he be?

She had hoped for a word with Beatrice during the journey, to make her understand that there was no way she would marry Mr. Black.

And she did not know Beatrice’s feelings in the matter.

Beatrice had been avoiding her, and Chloe, full of her own hopes and troubles and bright, overwhelming love, had not been paying enough attention.

But Papa had swept Beatrice into the first carriage with him, leaving Mama in her enormous skirts, to accompany the younger children. Even Richard was being allowed to attend, looking almost grown-up as the heroic Admiral Nelson.

Mrs. Dunwoody had worked wonders with the old ballroom at the back of the house, filling it with flowers and greenery and throwing open the glass doors to the lamp-lit terrace.

Everyone complimented her on it, and she no longer looked flustered.

She had turned miraculously into the perfect, confident hostess.

Perhaps she still imagined they would be announcing Laura’s engagement to Mr. Black. ..

The ballroom was already a sea of masks and bright dominoes. Even Chloe felt a ripple of excitement, for the masquerade made strangers of everyone and she rather liked the air of mystery, of guessing who everyone was. Who did not like dressing up?

She drifted toward the terrace, slipping out through the open doors.

It would be at least an hour before the darkness could hide her secret visit to the prisoner’s cell, but there was a clear path from the terrace around to that side of the house. And she could easily borrow one of those lanterns on the wall to light her way.

Inside, the orchestra began to play, and Chloe, satisfied for now, turned back into the ballroom. Her mother summoned her immediately to her side. Masquerade balls were, apparently, an excuse for more licentious behaviour, and Mama clearly did want Chloe’s mischief offending Mr. Black.

If only she knew how truly un -mischievous Chloe felt.

Starting toward her mother, she found her way blocked by a bowing gentleman in doublet and hose with a ruff around his neck and a scarlet domino hanging from one shoulder.

“Miss Shepherdess! Sir Francis Drake at your service.”

She laughed, for it was quite clearly Jerome Hurst at her service, and curtseyed deeply.

“May I have the honour of this first dance?” he asked.

“The honour is mine sir.” Chloe pushed her crook at him. “Hang this on a sheep or something, would you?”

Jerome chortled and propped the crook up against a table before leading her into the dance.

It was difficult not to enjoy such an event, but all the time that she danced and laughed, she could not help thinking how much more fun it would be if only Jon were here to share it.

***

J ON, IN FACT, WAS CLOSER than she imagined.

Hidden in the woods behind the house for some time, he held Whitey’s reins as well as his own, and peered toward the ballroom, which was dazzlingly lit now that dusk had begun to fall.

It seemed he had picked the night of the masquerade ball, though this did not dishearten him.

In fact, it appealed to his sense of the ridiculous and, besides, might even make things easier since everyone would be distracted.

Like most of his previous battle plans, he simply altered this one to suit events.

Besides, his Chloe would be there. And that was quite another temptation.

Turning Cavalo toward the side of the house, where he had earlier seen one of the constables he recognized from the Greater Lessing market, he drew Whitey’s mount with him.

Whitey himself, gagged, his hands bound behind him and his ankles tied to the stirrups, had no choice but to come along.

There was no sign of the constable now, but the small door outside which he had been lurking earlier to smoke his pipe and drink from a large mug, was ajar.

Jon was sure the man was guarding a prisoner in there. A faint light glimmered from inside.

And if the prisoner was not Noddock, well there would be another step to the game. The first thing was to find out.

When it was properly dark, Jon dismounted, with the aid of his trusty stick, took his pistol from saddle bag and pointed it at Whitey.

“I’m going to untie your feet, but I’d just as soon shoot you, so no violent movements.”

Even with a gag tied across his mouth, Whitey managed to sneer. Jon untied his feet and, leaning against Cavalo to steady himself, hauled the man ungently out of the saddle with his stick.

Then he grasped him by the arm and moved him forward a few stiff, stumbling paces, only to halt again, because someone was flitting around from the back of the house towards the door.

By the lantern she carried, he saw that it was a woman in some kind of unfashionable dress, though jewels winked amidst her hair and gown.

Of course, the party was a masquerade, and she was in disguise. She must be on some kind of assignation. The trouble was, his mind must have been too full of Chloe, for this girl seemed to move like her, with quick, restless grace, glancing once over her shoulder, but focused straight ahead.

She stopped at the door and pushed it open. He even heard the faint sound of her voice drifting on the wind. Dear God, it was Chloe!

What in the world was she up to?

A moment later, she came out again, this time with the constable, who marched beside her toward the front of the house.

Jon, torn between laughter and excitement, decided to do what he always did and make the best of every opportunity. “Move quickly,” he said.

Defiantly, Whitey tried to drag his heels.

Jon prodded him with the pistol—which was not, in fact, loaded—and received an aggressively scornful grimace in return.

He could read it well enough. You won’t shoot me , it said, you want me alive to replace your stupid friend, or you’d have killed me long since . ..

“I’d prefer you alive,” Jon said aloud. “But I’m more than happy to dump your body on the magistrate’s doorstep, along with the evidence and the testimony of our erstwhile companions.

Either way, my friend goes free. You can choose whether to die by the bullet tonight or live to escape another day. ”

Something in Jon’s calm, cold voice, or perhaps in his eyes—for he really had grown tired of the repellent Whitey—must have convinced the highwayman of Jon’s intent, for he walked faster without further prodding.

In no time, they were inside the shadowy door. Some stairs led downward to a room with a chair and a lantern on the wall. And a barred cell.

“Here, I’m starving,” complained a familiar voice, echoing in the gloom. “Got any nosh?”

“No time for supper, you layabout,” Jon said cheerfully. “On your feet!”

Something clattered in the cell, as though Noddock had leapt to his feet and knocked something over.

“Captain?” His face appeared against the bars of his cell. “Blimey, I don’t believe it! Who’s that?”

“Your understudy. In fact, he’s the principal player.

” Jon saw a ring with two keys hanging on a hook beside the lantern and snatched them with some relief.

It had just struck him somewhat belatedly that the constable might well have taken the keys with him to wherever Chloe had taken him.

He really didn’t want to use the blade in his pocket to hack into the steel bars of the cell.

Noddock was grinning. “You’re amazing, Captain. I ain’t even going to ask how you knew. And I really never robbed that old cove. I was good as gold, I was.”

Jon unlocked the door without fuss, and Whitey made a sudden lunge toward the steps. Noddock bolted after him, hauled him back, and between them, they manhandled him into the vacated cell.

In a moment of kindness, Jon untied the gag. “Go ahead,” he invited. “Yell your head off.”

Whitey remained furiously silent as Jon stepped outside, though he aimed a pointless kick at the door before Noddock slammed it shut and turned the key.

Jon took it from him and hung the ring back on its hook.

It was then that he heard the sound of echoing footsteps on the stairs.

Grabbing Noddock’s arm, he dragged him with him to skulk in the shadows beneath the steps.

He could hear his own breath mingling with Noddock’s and just hoped the constable couldn’t.

Only, it wasn’t the constable.

He knew her by her scent before he even saw the slight, ghostly figure flit past him to the foot of the stair and hurry up to the cell.

“Mr. Noddock,” she said urgently. “Are you awake?”

She stepped too close. Jon opened his mouth to warn her, already starting out of his hiding place, only Noddock’s unsavoury palm clamped around his mouth, just as Whitey loomed up against the bars and, with hands like claws, reached for her throat.