Page 24 of Escape of the Highwayman (Escape #3)

He still held her hands in a light, firm clasp, the warmth of his fingers burning through her gloves. His intense eyes devoured her, making her knees go weak.

“Yes?” she croaked.

“I will come back, all being well.”

“When?”

He raised her hand to his lips again, as if he couldn’t help it. “I don’t know. A year, maybe two—”

“Years?” she burst out. “Jon—” She broke off, silenced by the anguish she read in his face.

“I have not done right ,” he got out. “Not for a long time. Not by them and certainly not by you. I have to fix the mess I have made—”

“You have,” she said fiercely.

He shook his head. “No, it a mere beginning. Only I saw you there, looking for Noddock—”

“I smelled you there.”

“Oh dear,” he said shakily, and a laugh broke from her, wobbly and yet threatening hysteria.

“I felt you there,” she corrected. “I always will.”

His eyes closed for an instant and she took a step nearer him.

“I won’t forget you, Chloe.” He drew both her hands to his heart and held them there until she could feel its strong, steady beat. “Selfishly, I don’t want you to forget me, but you should have the chance. I am a poor bargain for any woman.”

She clenched her fists, thumping them against his chest. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare do exactly what they are doing and decide for me! What do you take me for? A child? An imbecile? Some shallow-minded debutante?”

His eyes widened in shock, and even in her sudden fury she took desperate advantage of that startlement, reaching up and pressing her lips to his.

Trapped between their bodies, her hands felt the instant quickening of his heartbeat and hers.

Even so, he tried to remain polite, with only the slightest pressure of his mouth in return before he tried to part them.

But she could not allow that. Dragging her hands free, she threw her arms around his neck and plastered herself against him.

He gave in with a sudden groan, his arms sweeping hard around her, and she was bent backward under the force of his response.

It was like an invasion, an onslaught of wonder and desire, and victory.

She wanted to laugh and weep at the same time.

“And that is what I so meant not to do,” he whispered against her lips. “I should never have come near you.”

“But you are glad you did,” she said huskily, and just a little smugly.

“I am, and now I have to go before I ravish you to ruin.”

This time it was she who was taken by surprise. She had given and received an astounding kiss, but she had not won. He would still leave her.

He was already releasing her when suddenly louder, more distinct voices emerged from the French doors, and he thrust her further from him, seizing his walking stick as though for protection.

“A different prisoner?” Mr. Dunwoody was saying in disbelief. “You’ve lost your wits, Riley. Go and sober up till your shift is done, and I’ll be along in the morning when I’m free. It’s bad enough that damned runner turning up here again and trying to beard me at my own party without you—”

“Sir, it’s a different man,” Riley interrupted with desperation. “And what’s more, there’s evidence . All Sir Denbeigh’s stolen items—or at least what looks like them to me—all in this bloke’s saddle bag, and signed testimony, too.”

“ What? ” Mr. Dunwoody had already turned away impatiently, but with that he swung back to the constable, scowling.

Over the man’s shoulder, he suddenly caught sight of Chloe, and perhaps the shadowy figure behind her.

He blinked. “Chloe. You had better come, too. First, though, could you discreetly invite Sir Denbeigh and Mr. Berry to join us?” He groaned.

“And have the servants send down the wretched runner if he’s still haunting my study.

What a dashed mess! My wife will be furious. ”

***

J ON FELT SUDDENLY AS if everything was getting away from him. Up until Chloe had cast herself into his arms, he had been sure he was in control. But kissing her, especially kissing her like that , was absolutely not part of his plan to take himself home and become worthy to court her.

All at once, everything had changed, and he was in a battle where the enemy had outflanked him—whoever the enemy was—and he was left floundering with his plan in ruins and someone else—everyone else!—in possession of the field that should have been his.

He did not want Chloe and Whitey in the same room, not again.

And then there was Robert. Robert was here , and quite suddenly his longing to see his perfect, self-righteous little brother, paralyzed him.

He stood perfectly still amongst the shadows, and no one seemed to notice him.

Chloe did not look back as she vanished back into the ballroom.

Dunwoody marched off with the constable, muttering his way across the terrace and down the stone steps onto the path Jon had followed earlier from the prison to the ballroom.

He would have been better off riding away with Noddock.

Why? She loves me!

No, she only thinks she does. But dear God, I am grateful even for that...

Pull yourself together, Berry.

And so, he did the only thing he could. He sauntered casually in Dunwoody’s wake in order to observe—and suffer if necessary—the consequences of his actions.

He took his time, but had to speed up suddenly, hirpling up the path and inside the prison door while a crowd of babbling people coming from the front of the house piled in and descended the stairs.

Robert, in the garb of the previous century, brushed so close that their elbows actually touched.

But he was frowning at the Bow Street runner at the time and did not appear to notice.

There was a fussy little gentleman in another eighteenth century wig—presumably Sir Denbeigh Miles, Whitey’s victim—and a large, haughty man whose arm Chloe was holding while looking anxious.

As she passed Jon, Chloe twitched, as though she would turn her head and look right at him. But she didn’t. The man trailing behind wearing a tunic that looked like chain mail, did turn, however, though he said nothing, just kept walking.

Below, Dunwoody and the constable were already confronting Whitey behind the bars of his cell, while the magistrate rifled through the highwayman’s bag of stolen goods and old food. Jon had left the latter in for authenticity.

“Miles,” Dunwoody said, lining up a snuffbox, small leather note case, a signet ring, and several other items on the table beneath the lantern. “Are these your stolen posessions?”

“Indeed they are!” cried the little man, with clear joy. “What a miracle, Dunwoody! I never believed you would find them. I am in your debt and overjoyed to be so.”

“I’m afraid I cannot take the credit,” Dunwoody said, turning to glare at his prisoner. “This letter says your name is Whitey. This man is from Bow Street and knows your name and your face.”

“He’s mistaken,” Whitey said in an outraged voice that still somehow managed to whine. “I been set upon, kidnapped, and brung here against my will. False imprisonment, that’s what it is!”

“And these items? Were they not in your possession?” Dunwoody asked politely.

“Not until the kidnapping cove put them there. He’s the thief you’re looking for.”

While everyone’s attention was on Whitey and the stolen goods, Jon moved silently down the stairs, resting his stick on each step with gentleness and taking care to tread softly.

“I hope you’re not accusing me, fellow,” Dunwoody said haughtily.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, your honour,” Whitey assured him. His shifty eyes found Jon, limping quietly among the shadows, and positively gleamed. “It’s a clear mistake of identity.”

“Ha!” said the Bow Street runner. “I know you of old, Len Whitey, and you’re a nasty, thieving, murdering son of a...” He coughed. “Murdering son,” he finished.

“A man can change,” Whitey said. “And I have. ’Cause I might have done some not quite lawful things in my youth, don’t mean I robbed that poor gent, and I didn’t.”

“Well, Miles?” Dunwoody said impatiently. “Is he the man who held you up and robbed you?”

Sir Denbeigh paced closer, peering at the prisoner. Obligingly, the constable lit another lantern and brought it closer, shining it directly on Whitey’s roguish, dirty face.

“Maybe,” the victim said doubtfully. “He’s about the right height and build and his voice is familiar. But he was wearing a mask. The last fellow limped. What happened to the last fellow?”

“He got sprung,” Whitey said bitterly, “when I got shoved in here.”

“Wait,” Dunwoody commanded. “Do you limp, fellow?”

“’Course I don’t.” Whitey swaggered across his cell to demonstrate.

Dunwoody tugged at his hair, forgetting it was a wig, and pulled it off. He clamped it back on his head, where it sat at a jaunty angle. “Then the first fellow is the real highwayman?”

“’Course he ain’t,” Whitey said triumphantly, and pointed straight at Jon. “ There’s your highwayman.”

Everyone turned to stare at Jon. He didn’t mind.

It was why he had come. He had known Whitey would try to cast the blame on him and trusted in the evidence and future enquiries of the constables to prove the truth.

But as soon as he’d known Chloe would be down there, he had realized she would protect him. And that would be disastrous for her.

So, he limped deliberately into the light, to a few intakes of breath and glowers of puzzlement. He did not look at Chloe.

“ He limps,” Whitey pointed out smugly.

“So do you when you first get off your horse,” Jon returned, and saw Robert’s head turn sharply. “You’re practically crippled and almost bow-legged for the first five minutes.”

“Who the devil are you?” Dunwoody demanded.

“He’s your highwayman!” Whitey exclaimed.

“No, I’m not,” Jon said, touching his eyepatch and his sword. “I’m a scoundrelly pirate.”

“One of your guests, Dunwoody,” said the chain-mailed knight who had come last down the stairs before Jon. “I noticed him particularly.”

Because Jon had taken Chloe away from the youth who wanted to dance with her? Was this the annoying Mr. Black?

“Then you have no business here, sir,” Dunwoody said, glaring. “This is a matter of justice. As for you, fellow—” He turned his glare back on Whitey. “Find another tale worthy of telling. Accusing my guests is folly.”

“It damn well is,” Robert said savagely, striding straight up to Jon. As soon as his hand twitched upward, Jon caught his wrist and held it implacably. But Robert had the advantage of a free hand, and used it to snatch off Jon’s mask, eye patch, and head kerchief in one sweep.

“You’re faster than you used to be,” Jon said.

Robert stared into his face. “What the...?”

“Oh, poking my nose in, righting wrongs,” Jon said breezily. “How are you, Rob? Are the ancestors well?”

“This is your brother?” Dunwoody said incredulously.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Robert said. “And yes, we are all well, if worried sick.”

Jon bowed to Dunwoody. “Forgive my blundering in uninvited, sir. I had a little business to attend to and thought to speak discreetly to my brother at the same time.”

“ Business !” exclaimed Whitey in fresh outrage. “Some business, kidnapping me, locking me up in here just to free your own crew!”

“Crew?” said the runner sharply, peering more closely at Jon. “Wait a moment! I know you, don’t I? Riley! Isn’t that the fellow we chased out of the market in Greater Lessing?”

Riley sniffed. “Looks like him to me, but I got no idea what ’s going on anymore.”

“Is any of this true, Mr. Berry?” Dunwoody demanded. “Or is it Captain Berry?”

“Just Mr. I sold my commission you know. Invalided out—like my old friend Noddock who was your previous guest. If you hadn’t been holding a party, sir, I would have presented my prisoner and my evidence directly into your hands.

But since you were—well, I suppose mischief got the better of me.

But the basics remain true. The return of this gentleman’s possessions, and the guilt of this ruffian. ”

“But he said you planted the evidence,” the runner persisted. “What do you say to that?”

“I have already said it,” Jon said steadily. “And you know better than to believe him .”

Dunwoody tutted with irritation. “You’ve already said that part of what he told us is true!

You’ve been interfering with justice, sir.

You may be Mr. Berry’s brother and a gentleman, but you are not above the law.

You and this fellow are accusing each other of the crime. Sir Denbeigh here seems unsure.”

Jon, who felt the magistrate was getting a little too close, tried to break in, but Dunwoody talked through him. “Do either of you have witnesses as to where you were three evenings ago at about nine of the clock?”

“I was in company at the Horse’s Head tavern,” Whitey said virtuously.

“No, you weren’t,” Jon said. “Your company all told me you held up a coach at Farfield at nine.”

“He has given us an alibi to work with,” the runner said. “Where is yours? Sir?”

The sir was far enough distant from the question as to be insulting. Jon began to regret leading the law on such a merry dance at the market. More consequences. Because everyone was looking at him. He could feel the intensity of Chloe’s silent gaze, but still, he refused to glance her way.

Robert’s pleading, uncertain eyes were hard enough.

“Well?” Dunwoody said impatiently. “Let’s get it over with, Berry.”

Jon smiled. “I have no alibi, of course. I was not aware I would need one. I was simply travelling and sleeping under the stars when I could.”

“Best bang him up with me,” Whitey gloated, “while you gentlemen of the law investigate.”

Whitey would like that, of course. They could only hang him once—as well for a sheep as a lamb.

Jon regarded him speculatively while his mind repeated over and over the same phrase, willing Chloe to hear and obey. Say nothing, say nothing, say nothing ...

“Mr. Berry does have an alibi,” Chloe said clearly. “He was with me on the evening in question. Until after midnight, in fact.”