Page 42

B ASH LEANED AGAINST THE LAMPPOST on St. James Street, waiting outside the gentlemen’s club while watching for the stout Sir Thomas to emerge from Boodle’s.

He had, at long last, returned to London during Bash’s shift and had spent his evening gambling, no doubt.

Bash rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms against the uncommonly chilly summer night.

He supposed it was good that it was cold, to keep him alert.

It had been a long morning searching London for the best situation for Evie, as the other two townhomes had already been let while Bash was attempting to write to her.

Bash liked one of the townhomes he viewed today and signed a lease, praying that his bride would love it.

She had been on his mind from the moment he awoke to the moment he closed his eyes, and then he saw her in his dreams. Even his fellow yeomen had commented on his distraction during his shift, which had ended at eight of the clock.

Sir Thomas stumbled out, his layered cape billowing out with the gust of wind. His boisterous laughter revealed that he had been deep in the cups, even if his gait was straight as he moved to his carriage.

Bash pushed off the lamppost and followed closely behind, his ebony attire helping him blend into the shadows. Even though he disliked wearing his disguise with the Bow Street Runners near, he had to risk it. It was time to end this blackmailer’s threat against the Prince Regent.

Bash counted as the wheels turned, approaching him on the corner. He drew on his mask and bounced on his toes, tensing his body. The carriage rolled toward him, and he leapt, catching the open window of the door and hurtling himself through it.

“What on earth is—” The man huffed, his jaw dropping at the sight of Bash the highwayman.

Bash held a finger to his lips as he lifted his pistol, keeping the barrel pointed at Sir Thomas’s feet. “We meet again, sir. I suggest you empty your pockets once more.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You are no common highwayman to come all the way to London to approach me a second time. Who hired you?”

“I never claimed to be a simple highwayman.” He gestured to Sir Thomas’s pockets. “The letter, if you please, Sir Thomas.”

“W-what letter?” He puffed out his cheeks, his jowls jiggling violently.

Bash tapped the barrel against his palm. “Let us not insult each other now that we are so well acquainted.”

Sir Thomas crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The final letter.” He drew back the hammer, the click sounding like a gunshot in the close quarters.

“Stop. Stop! I’ll supply it.” The man’s voice shook along with his fingers as he lifted his hands and threw himself back against the tufted leather seat.

“I won the packet in a game of cards. The fellow said it was worth a king’s ransom, so I read the one, which is how it came to be separated from the packet. ”

“Did you?” He returned the hammer into a safe position and leaned on his knees so that he nearly closed the distance between them.

“B-but there was nothing I can quote from it. I assure you.”

Bash narrowed his gaze, deepening his brogue. “Where is it?”

“I’m no fool. After the first time you robbed me, I no longer keep it on my person. It was too valuable to take out of my home.”

“Then by all means, allow me to escort you home.” He grinned. “I will leap out of the carriage before we reach your door to keep the driver from seeing me. But if you shout, I will shoot you where you stand and fetch it out myself.”

“Y-you know where I live?” Sir Thomas blinked rapidly.

“You said it yourself. I am no common highwayman. Go inside and open the window on the ground floor. Recall my marksmanship, if you so much as think of whispering of my presence.”

The carriage turned onto Sir Thomas’s street.

Bash crawled out the window, perched on the sill, and leapt, rolling upon the ground to soften the impact.

He raced into the shadow of one of the trees lining the street.

The driver pulled back the reins, and Sir Thomas ambled out.

The front door closed behind him, and a moment later the scraping of a window alerted Bash to Sir Thomas.

He smirked. The coward did not even question Bash’s demands.

Pistol drawn, he peeked in the window to ensure Sir Thomas was unarmed. Sir Thomas already had his hands above his head, his jowls jiggling in fear. Bash climbed through. “Take me to the letter.”

“Y-yes! It is only just over here.” He opened the drawer.

“That is your secure holding—a drawer?”

He pursed his fleshy lips. “No one would dare steal from my desk. I trust my staff.” He left the letter on the front corner of the writing desk and dashed across the room to a wingback chair, where he immediately plopped down and breathed heavily.

Satisfied Sir Thomas was not going to pull a weapon on him, Bash snatched up the letter and turned it over, studying first the broken seal and handwriting in the moonlight streaming through the window.

The feminine tilt of the letters matched the hand that he had long ago memorized—Maria Fitzherbert.

“You said you read it. Did anyone else?”

“We all did, but without the letter, there is no proof, and without proof, no one shall dare speak of it again, lest they wish to visit the Crown’s prison.” He shivered.

The Prince Regent would be so pleased that he might allow Bash time to return home to collect Evie and Grandmother himself.

He stuffed it into his pocket, when he heard the click of a hammer being pulled into place.

His gaze darted up to meet Sir Thomas’s steady hand and the barrel of a pistol aimed straight for Bash.

He must have had a weapon stashed in the cushion of the chair.

Bash cursed himself for being distracted, but he eased confidence into his voice. “How certain are you that you can kill me before I can shoot you?”

“I practice to keep myself sharp.” He grinned. “I earned my title much like you, Sir Sebastian—in wartime. I may not be as strong as I once was, but I am very confident in my speed and marksmanship.”

Bash stiffened at the name, and for the first time as the highwayman, true fear stole into his heart. The man was no weakling. “You have me confused with someone else. Why would a nobleman wish to resort to thievery?”

“Because of your duty to the Prince Regent as his closest Yeoman of the Guard.” He smirked. “And because of that friendship, we wished to lay a trap for you.”

“Trap? What are you talk—” He frowned. “The letters? Those were a trap?” Was there anything in there that was really of national security? “But why would the Prince Regent send me to fetch those letters if they were not real?”

“Of course they were real.” He snorted. “We never anticipated them being so … informative, especially the last letter we kept from the rest, from Maria Fitzherbert, where she recounts her secret wedding to the Prince Regent. It was an invalid marriage, of course, because he was underage and did not marry with the king’s approval.

However, there were details in there that should not be public knowledge.

George had every right to be concerned about the content.

” He snorted. “We knew he would want them back and, more importantly, who he would send. Capturing you was our prerogative.”

“And what could you possibly gain from capturing me? Having me sent to jail? What good would I be to you there?” Bash had to keep him talking while he figured out what to do.

He had a dagger in his belt at his stomach, another at his back, and one in each boot. How to reach them without getting shot?

“I am no fool, and neither are you. Of course we would not bring you to jail. No, we have a ship ready at the London docks to take you to France, where we will torture you—if you do not comply, that is.” He chuckled.

“We are not monsters. We only want a few answers from you before we … release you from your pain.”

The door creaked open, and two men stood with weapons drawn. “The carriage is ready,” the taller informed Sir Thomas.

“Very good. Check him for weapons. We will bring him to his apartment and see if the Prince Regent entrusted him to hide anything useful to us. Then we will away from this horrible city.”

The men crossed the room, and Bash wrenched out his dagger from his waist, slashing at the shorter of the two while evading the second. A pistol flashed bright in the parlor. A bullet passed Bash’s head by a hairbreadth, knocking off his hat.

“Calm yourself or I shall have to graze your leg with a bullet. I would hate for you to die of an infection before you can help us, but that is a risk I am willing to take.”

Bash lifted his hands above his head. He could take three to one, but this was not the moment to spring into action. The traitors seized his arms, jerking them behind his back. “You mentioned you wanted answers.” Bash grunted. “Such as?”

“Such as the best time in the Prince Regent’s schedule to kill him.”

The journey to London left her frazzled and heartsore, thinking of Grandmother and how she must have been admitted to the asylum by now.

She guided Brigand through the streets, following the directions to Bash’s home, which he had left for her along with a small key in case of emergency.

She had never thought she would have need of it.

She halted the horse in front of the two-story building beside a pub with a stable a few doors down.

She climbed down, her limbs weak from the hundred miles in the saddle.

But she was prepared this time and braced for her muscles to give.

She steadied herself, and when her knees locked, she released her hold and wobbled toward the stable, guiding Brigand.

She swallowed a giggle. She would look like a drunk with her uncertain gait.

No one gave her a second glance, with the tavern nearby.