The Lady & The Panther~Chapter 5~Haunted by the Past (PG)
We are back with the further adventures of Lady Rosemont and the mysterious and handsome criminal who has entered her life. This is a shorter chapter but quite a bit more of Lizzie’s and Guy’s past as well as their present activities . . . Hope you enjoy.
(Uli asked me if the last chapter, Chapter 4, was going to be my last. No, indeed, and quite truthfully, I don’t have a set number of chapters for the story of Lizzie and her dashing highwayman.
But you can expect something the length of a short novel, at the least.)
The Lady & The Panther
~Chapter 5~
I had stolen what some would call a king’s ransom in jewels. My treasure included gems so beautiful, with such fire, set in metal work so delicate-looking and fine, it seemed as if the faeries and wood-nymphs themselves must have crafted them, rather than human hands.
That is what I carried in my saddlebags the night Mon Ange nearly shot me.
Curiously, there were no reports in the papers, no gossip in the taverns, inns and coffeehouses I frequented in the fortnight after I took pleasurable refuge in my Protectress’ gloomy manse.
Certain well-placed acquaintances reported to me they had not heard of anything amiss, either. It was a quandary.
If I had not known better, it would have seemed as if, what I can call in all modesty, a rather spectacular robbery, had never taken place.
Whilst I did not wish for my true identity to be revealed, one does like to take pride in one’s work-even if it is outside the law.
I would have, I must admit, enjoyed reading the over-heated prose of the newspaper writers. Perusing their lofty condemnation of my lawlessness, even as they sensationalized it all to sell their scribblings, quite amused me.
Overhearing conversations concerning my daring escapades, even as I played the role of honest citizen amongst them, brought me no little satisfaction.
One of my little vanities; you must excuse me.
I recalled what Lizzie had said of Barkley; how he would not reveal his client.
So it would seem as if that client wanted to keep his-or her-loss a secret.
I suspected I knew exactly why . . .
*~*~*~*~*
So now Amelia knew my secret-well, most of it. I must say it proved a relief to share my strange but delightful adventure with someone else, a friend and an ally.
Sometimes she would slyly give me knowing looks whilst in Horace’s presence, always careful not to let him see, of course.
Not that he would have likely noticed. She was only a servant, after all. And Amelia was neither voluptuous nor handsome in that rather equine sort of manner Horace seemed to prefer, long-faced and large-teethed, like his mistress.
It was Saturday evening, the last Saturday evening before we journeyed to our house in London. Horace, such a creature of habit, was, of course, ensconced in the fleshy arms of Mrs. Fleming, the afore-mentioned mistress.
I had enjoyed a quiet supper in my bedchamber and was now preparing to lie down and read a ribald novel by Mr. Fielding. If Horace could take his sensual pleasures, so, I had decided, could I.
“Like one of his horses, SHE is,” Amelia sniffed with great disdain as she once again attacked the powdered and pomaded creation that was my fashionable coiffure, loosening it enough that I might be able to sleep.
Sometimes I despised all the artifice required to be au courant.
I thought of how Panther had seen me bare-faced with my hair loose and un-powdered, free of stays and frills and furbelows, too pale and peaked--and still found me most desirable.
He had even given me, according to Amelia, my bloom and sparkle once again.
I must confess, I did find my countenance more pleasing now when I glimpsed my reflection in the looking-glasses scattered around the hall.
And yet--at my most powdered and painted and beauty-patched, in my most elaborate gowns, I did not quite pass muster with Horace, who admires such fashionable creatures.
The world is a very peculiar place at times, do you not agree?
“Can’t see what my lord sees in the Widow Flemin’ compared to you.”
My eyes met Amelia’s in the looking-glass.
“Ah, my dear Amelia, perhaps that is the attraction. He does love his horses and hounds so much that a woman who resembles one or the other most, seems to suit him best.”
Amelia’s dimple appeared as her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “That must be the answer, my lady. There is no accountin’ for tastes, now, is there?”
I returned her smile. “None whatsoever, my dear.”
Her smile turned into a conspiratorial one as she leaned over and whispered:
“Anyway, we know of someone who does appreciate your charms, don’t we?”
I laughed, but inside I felt a sharp pang.
~Am I destined to relive that one night in my imagination, in my dreams? To pine away for a man who may find a hangman’s noose around his neck on any day?~
“My lady? Do you think so?”
I started, realising my maid was still speaking.
“Forgive me, Amelia. What did you say?”
“Do you suppose my lord will move HER to town, also?” She spoke with a disdainful sniff.
I gave a world-weary shrug. “I suppose so. I can’t see him making the journey from London here on a weekly basis. It would cut into his card playing and flirtations with the ladies of le bon ton.”
I raised my brows, my mouth twisting. “Of course, my lord might very well decide to take a second mistress-or a new one altogether. After all, society deems it acceptable for him to do so, if he acts discretely . . .”
~Ah, but I, as a titled lady expected to bear him children, must not stray until I have given him his heir. I have already broken that sacrosanct rule, haven’t I?~
I raised my chin, that stubborn Chadwick chin. “I shall certainly not miss him from my bed. I do not care to give him another opportunity to be-disappointed by me.”
“Oh-my lady.” Amelia set the brush on my dressing table and placed a small hand on my shoulder, squeezing it a little. “The world is so unfair. A lovely lady like you, with so much love and kindness to give, with a husband who doesn’t see it and no livin’ ch-”
“Thank you, Amelia.” I cut her words short as I patted her hand, rising, my face turned from her and the looking-glass.
“You are very kind and good to me, indeed. You have other tasks to attend to now before it grows too late, I am certain.”
“Yes, my lady.” I heard her quick, light footsteps dart across the room and my door close behind her.
I sat down on my bed, suddenly exhausted. I was rarely so curt with Amelia-in truth, I was far too familiar with her in most people’s eyes, I am certain-but so many painful thoughts were suddenly rushing through my head. I needed to be alone with those thoughts.
My fingers sought out the locket tucked inside my dressing gown and opened it. Lifting out first one lock of hair, and then the other, I placed them in my palm.
Looking at the raven lock, I smiled a little as I stroked it.
“You were mine for one night, Guy, and I can’t seem to forget you. There is so much more I want to know about you. No wonder they call you ‘Thief of Hearts.’ I fully understand that, now.”
I lifted the fair tress to my lips and gently kissed it.
~My darling little Alexander. You were mine for nine wonderful months. After the heartbreak of those two stillborn babies, to have you come into this world, strong and so beautiful and such a good-tempered baby-my dream had come true. Horace was so proud. His son, his heir. All was well. Or so we thought~
Three small graves. My two precious daughters and my long-awaited son. Alexander, so vigorous and blooming with good health. Dead from a raging fever that took him like a thief in the night.
~Part of me died that day, too. It is not that I did not mourn my daughters, whom I had lovingly carried in my body those months before their premature arrivals; but Alexander-oh, you completely captured my heart in your brief life. I would have died for you.
I oft wished in the weeks and months after your death that I had died instead of you~
I pressed Alexander’s lock of hair against my cheek and let the tears stream down my face without bothering to wipe them away.
It had been a year-and-a-half since we had lost Alexander. But that night, it seemed like yesterday.
In spite of my dear little Amelia, I still felt so very alone. And I longed for a pair of strong arms to wrap around me, and a pair of broad shoulders to rest my head upon. A deep, warm voice to whisper to me.
Placing the tresses back inside the locket, I slipped beneath the covers and blew out my candle. Curling up, I closed my eyes and pressed my still-wet face against the soft pillow.
~Come to me. Please, come to me.~
Sleep finally came. And so did he.
“My sweet Lizzie, ma petite,” he murmured in my ear as he gathered me into his arms, pressing gentle, light-as-air kisses to my face, stroking my hair with those elegant hands.
“You may cry all you want, my sweet girl. I am here.”
And after all my tears had flowed onto that broad shoulder and he had murmured more tender words into my ear, he slowly, gently took possession of my body once more, as if I were some precious vessel he worshipped . . .
Yes, ‘twas only a dream. But how it comforted me.
*~*~*~*
It is raining to-night in London. I am tucked into one of my bolt-holes on this Saturday’s eve with a bottle of good French wine I liberated from a coach-and-four, some fresh bread and a portion of cheese so sharp it makes me wince to taste it.
I should be making plans for my journey across the Channel to France. I have business and personal matters to which I need to attend. I look over the papers I have assembled on the small table, but my mind wanders.
I push them away, dip back my head, parting my lips in a long sigh as I rub my nose.
I could wrap myself in my cloak, stroll the damp, dirty streets and seek out some pretty tart who is bemoaning the nasty weather’s tendency to cut into her trade. I would pay her enough that she would not feel the pain of lost customers.
And I would leave her with a contented smile.
But I do not want to do that, either. ‘Tis rather surprising, when one thinks of it, of me, the sort of man I am. My needs and my appetites are strong.
I push my chair away from the table and rise to my feet, quickly crossing the small, snug room to where my frockcoat hangs on a peg.
Slipping my hand inside the hidden pocket, I withdraw the pouch and open it. Plucking out the strand of soft chestnut hair, I wind it around my finger. I sniff it to catch a whiff of her scent.
It reminds me of some other fragrance, one from long, long ago, one I cannot quite place.
I close my eyes and think of how a pair of fine emerald eyes glittered as she raised the candelabra before going down to met Barkley. Of her smile, sweet and flirtatious and sad all at once.
It would surely be better for Lizzie to never see me again. Perhaps, better for me, too.
Yet, I hope, dearly hope it will not be so.
For part of me longs to hold her in my arms again, and, perhaps, wipe away the pain in those eyes.
Eyes that haunt me . . .
*~*~*~*~*
It was time to depart from Algernon Hall. Servants had gone in advance to remove all the dust sheets, air out the London house, prepare the bed chambers and stock the larder and wine cellar.
The servants left behind had covered the Algernon Hall furnishings, cleaned out the larder, locked up the tea and strong drink and shuttered the windows. A few members of the staff would remain to keep the garden well tended and to care for the horses and hounds that would not accompany us to London.
I had directed the housekeeper, Mrs. Bunting, and she had directed everyone else, stern taskmaster that she is.
Amelia, of course, had carefully packed my clothing in several trunks, my baubles in jewelry cases, hats in boxes. It is rather a large undertaking, but my maid would not dream of another handling my wardrobe. And I would not dream of suggesting anyone do so. Amelia may be small, but she is quite formidable.
The flurry of activity had been tiring, but it also had its benefits.
It helped keep my melancholy thoughts about my lost children at bay.
And it helped to quiet, if not remove, my yearnings for my highwayman.
Just as his lock of hair remained nested in the locket I wore every night, a little part of him seemed to be with me all the time.
And that gave me a strange sort of comfort.
*~*~*~*
It is a late summer’s day and I am wandering the water’s edge, my stockings stripped off and tucked into the shoes I have left on the beach.
I love the water and I fear it; Tante Louise has warned us all many a time of its dangers. Her huge dark eyes, almost black in that crumpled parchment face, the perfumed powder she applies religiously, emphasizing every crease and crevice; her voice, low and ominous, telling us of children swept away by the sea, never to be seen again, until their storm-battered corpses are tossed like so much flotsam and jetsam on the beach.
I sometimes think she enjoys making us shiver.
But I am also rebellious at heart, I suppose. And so my trepidation over the monsters that might lie beneath the surface is trumped by my desire to flirt with the danger.
I wade into the water, ankle-high, knee-high, waist-high.
Its coolness is so welcome on this unusually hot day.
I close my eyes and raise my face to the sun. I need not worry about the sun browning my skin. I am a man, or will be in another ten or twelve years or so, and I do not need to worry about such feminine fripperies.
The wave envelopes me before I realise what has happened.
The water embraces me fully, my legs and arms flailing to find something, anything to catch on to.
I want to scream out, “Aide-moi, aide-moi” but I cannot. My mouth and lungs fill with the sea water. I am suddenly blind and deaf and I cannot breathe.
Now I know I am going to die, and I do not, do not, do not want to go . . .
I feel a pair of strong hands grasp my arms and lift me up. I break through the surface of the water, sputtering, eyes stinging from the salt in the water, crying and hating myself for crying.
But I do mark, in my distress and humiliation, that, at least, I am not dead.
The strong hands prove to belong to a man, tall like Monsieur, but even broader in his chest. When he speaks, he, too, is deep of voice, but rough-edged, not refined like Monsieur. And he is English.
“Come now, lad, you are going to be just fine. Had the breath knocked out of you by that wave, didn’t you? Go ahead, spit the water out, that’s a good lad.”
He carries me in his arms out of the water. I hear Tante Louise’s cries grow louder as she tries to run across the sand to us, hampered by her skirts and the high-heeled chaussures she insists upon wearing, even in our little coastal village.
“Mon dieu, Guy-est-ce qu’il--” Her voice breaks.
The deep voice rumbles as he replies.
“No harm done, madam. I think the boy was frightened more than anything else. Got caught by surprise, didn’t you?”
I look into that ruddy face, into his bright blue eyes and see a friend.
“Oui, monsieur. I was-surprised.”
Tante Louise heaves a great sigh and makes the sign of the cross as she clutches her rosary with her other hand.
“Merci, Monsieur Clarke. Et pardon. Je lui ai dit --ouf! Plusieurs fois. Attention de la mer, mon petit!”
I can feel a boxing of the ears accompanied by a stern scolding in my future. To be followed by much cosseting. It is Tante Louise’s way. And in her own way, I think she loves me.
She is all I really have. Monsieur is no more than an infrequent visitor into my world, the benefactor of whom I know so little.
On the day I nearly drowned, I do not know my world is about to be taken away from me. Or should I say, I am to be taken away from Tante Louise and all that is familiar.
*~*~*~*
The first portion of our journey to London proved a soggy one. It was raining yet again, a blustery rain, so we had to keep the windows of the carriage covered to keep from getting soaked.
The air felt heavy and close inside. I longed to fling open the covering and stick my head out into the rain; to feel it lashing against my face, never mind what it would do to my coiffure.
I knew, however, that Horace, who sitting across from me, hands folded upon his elegantly-clad knee, would not be in the least bit amused. He would think I had taken leave of my senses.
Sometimes, I wondered if I hadn’t. A faint sigh escaped my lips and I raised a hand to rub my forehead for a moment.
“Are you feeling unwell, my lady?” Amelia, seated beside me, asked.
I smiled at her and shook my head. “Thank you, Amelia, but not. Just a little tired from the flurry of activity preparing for our journey.”
Amelia’s keen grey eyes were studying me once more, her gaze briefly shifting down to the beaded reticule I held snugly against me.
Her lips turned up at the corners, although she maintained a sober expression in her eyes.
“Very good, my lady.”
She sat back wearing a demure expression. The faintest hint of a smug smile played about her lips, however.
Ignoring it, I drew out my fan and unfurled it. “It is so very-warm in here,” I said.
Horace sniffed, pulling a snowy white linen handkerchief from his sleeve and pressing it to his nose.
“Indeed, my lady, but we cannot allow the rain to come in.” One hand stole up to lightly finger his wig.
“I’ve this new peruke which I simply cannot allow to get wet.”
I gave a small nod of acquiescence and smiled. “Indeed not, my lord. T’would be a tragedy indeed if such a beautiful wig were damaged.”
If Horace detected the faint note of sarcasm in my voice, there was no sign of it.
He gave a complacent little smile. “It is Monsieur Pierre’s finest work to date for me.”
I gave a small nod of agreement and fanned myself a little faster to stir the heavy air. Closing my eyes, I began to wonder, as I seemed to so often, what Guy was up to . . .
*~*~*~*
The carriage came to an abrupt stop, jolting me awake.
The sound of the falling rain mingled with voices outside our conveyance, but I could not understand what they were saying.
“What the deuce--” Horace frowned and drew out his watch.
“Can’t possibly have reached our destination for the night yet. There is still plenty of daylight left.”
He muttered peevishly beneath his breath as he opened the window cover, attempting to shield his precious peruke from the elements with his hands as he thrust his head through the opening.
“Why in damnation have we stopped?”
I heard what sounded like muttered oaths coming from our coachmen.
“Beg pardon, my lord. There is a-problem.”
“Well, what is it? A tree down on the road?” Horace drawled.
“Not-exactly, milord.”
Suddenly Horace gasped and leapt back from the window, as much as one could leap in such confined quarters. And one could not blame him, as a large and lethal-looking flintlock was being aimed at Horace’s face, which was rapidly losing its customary high colour.
Amelia gasped. “A robbery . . .” I wasn’t sure if she was scared-or excited. Or of my own response.
“Beg pardon, my lord. But I must ask you to stand and deliver. Your money and your valuables. Now, if you please, my lord.”
My hand reached for Amelia’s and clutched it tightly.
In spite of the muffled nature of the voice, I recognised its rich, dark velvet tones.
It would seem Panther had struck again.
*~*~*~*~*
(Uli asked me if the last chapter, Chapter 4, was going to be my last. No, indeed, and quite truthfully, I don’t have a set number of chapters for the story of Lizzie and her dashing highwayman.
But you can expect something the length of a short novel, at the least.)
The Lady & The Panther
~Chapter 5~
I had stolen what some would call a king’s ransom in jewels. My treasure included gems so beautiful, with such fire, set in metal work so delicate-looking and fine, it seemed as if the faeries and wood-nymphs themselves must have crafted them, rather than human hands.
That is what I carried in my saddlebags the night Mon Ange nearly shot me.
Curiously, there were no reports in the papers, no gossip in the taverns, inns and coffeehouses I frequented in the fortnight after I took pleasurable refuge in my Protectress’ gloomy manse.
Certain well-placed acquaintances reported to me they had not heard of anything amiss, either. It was a quandary.
If I had not known better, it would have seemed as if, what I can call in all modesty, a rather spectacular robbery, had never taken place.
Whilst I did not wish for my true identity to be revealed, one does like to take pride in one’s work-even if it is outside the law.
I would have, I must admit, enjoyed reading the over-heated prose of the newspaper writers. Perusing their lofty condemnation of my lawlessness, even as they sensationalized it all to sell their scribblings, quite amused me.
Overhearing conversations concerning my daring escapades, even as I played the role of honest citizen amongst them, brought me no little satisfaction.
One of my little vanities; you must excuse me.
I recalled what Lizzie had said of Barkley; how he would not reveal his client.
So it would seem as if that client wanted to keep his-or her-loss a secret.
I suspected I knew exactly why . . .
*~*~*~*~*
So now Amelia knew my secret-well, most of it. I must say it proved a relief to share my strange but delightful adventure with someone else, a friend and an ally.
Sometimes she would slyly give me knowing looks whilst in Horace’s presence, always careful not to let him see, of course.
Not that he would have likely noticed. She was only a servant, after all. And Amelia was neither voluptuous nor handsome in that rather equine sort of manner Horace seemed to prefer, long-faced and large-teethed, like his mistress.
It was Saturday evening, the last Saturday evening before we journeyed to our house in London. Horace, such a creature of habit, was, of course, ensconced in the fleshy arms of Mrs. Fleming, the afore-mentioned mistress.
I had enjoyed a quiet supper in my bedchamber and was now preparing to lie down and read a ribald novel by Mr. Fielding. If Horace could take his sensual pleasures, so, I had decided, could I.
“Like one of his horses, SHE is,” Amelia sniffed with great disdain as she once again attacked the powdered and pomaded creation that was my fashionable coiffure, loosening it enough that I might be able to sleep.
Sometimes I despised all the artifice required to be au courant.
I thought of how Panther had seen me bare-faced with my hair loose and un-powdered, free of stays and frills and furbelows, too pale and peaked--and still found me most desirable.
He had even given me, according to Amelia, my bloom and sparkle once again.
I must confess, I did find my countenance more pleasing now when I glimpsed my reflection in the looking-glasses scattered around the hall.
And yet--at my most powdered and painted and beauty-patched, in my most elaborate gowns, I did not quite pass muster with Horace, who admires such fashionable creatures.
The world is a very peculiar place at times, do you not agree?
“Can’t see what my lord sees in the Widow Flemin’ compared to you.”
My eyes met Amelia’s in the looking-glass.
“Ah, my dear Amelia, perhaps that is the attraction. He does love his horses and hounds so much that a woman who resembles one or the other most, seems to suit him best.”
Amelia’s dimple appeared as her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “That must be the answer, my lady. There is no accountin’ for tastes, now, is there?”
I returned her smile. “None whatsoever, my dear.”
Her smile turned into a conspiratorial one as she leaned over and whispered:
“Anyway, we know of someone who does appreciate your charms, don’t we?”
I laughed, but inside I felt a sharp pang.
~Am I destined to relive that one night in my imagination, in my dreams? To pine away for a man who may find a hangman’s noose around his neck on any day?~
“My lady? Do you think so?”
I started, realising my maid was still speaking.
“Forgive me, Amelia. What did you say?”
“Do you suppose my lord will move HER to town, also?” She spoke with a disdainful sniff.
I gave a world-weary shrug. “I suppose so. I can’t see him making the journey from London here on a weekly basis. It would cut into his card playing and flirtations with the ladies of le bon ton.”
I raised my brows, my mouth twisting. “Of course, my lord might very well decide to take a second mistress-or a new one altogether. After all, society deems it acceptable for him to do so, if he acts discretely . . .”
~Ah, but I, as a titled lady expected to bear him children, must not stray until I have given him his heir. I have already broken that sacrosanct rule, haven’t I?~
I raised my chin, that stubborn Chadwick chin. “I shall certainly not miss him from my bed. I do not care to give him another opportunity to be-disappointed by me.”
“Oh-my lady.” Amelia set the brush on my dressing table and placed a small hand on my shoulder, squeezing it a little. “The world is so unfair. A lovely lady like you, with so much love and kindness to give, with a husband who doesn’t see it and no livin’ ch-”
“Thank you, Amelia.” I cut her words short as I patted her hand, rising, my face turned from her and the looking-glass.
“You are very kind and good to me, indeed. You have other tasks to attend to now before it grows too late, I am certain.”
“Yes, my lady.” I heard her quick, light footsteps dart across the room and my door close behind her.
I sat down on my bed, suddenly exhausted. I was rarely so curt with Amelia-in truth, I was far too familiar with her in most people’s eyes, I am certain-but so many painful thoughts were suddenly rushing through my head. I needed to be alone with those thoughts.
My fingers sought out the locket tucked inside my dressing gown and opened it. Lifting out first one lock of hair, and then the other, I placed them in my palm.
Looking at the raven lock, I smiled a little as I stroked it.
“You were mine for one night, Guy, and I can’t seem to forget you. There is so much more I want to know about you. No wonder they call you ‘Thief of Hearts.’ I fully understand that, now.”
I lifted the fair tress to my lips and gently kissed it.
~My darling little Alexander. You were mine for nine wonderful months. After the heartbreak of those two stillborn babies, to have you come into this world, strong and so beautiful and such a good-tempered baby-my dream had come true. Horace was so proud. His son, his heir. All was well. Or so we thought~
Three small graves. My two precious daughters and my long-awaited son. Alexander, so vigorous and blooming with good health. Dead from a raging fever that took him like a thief in the night.
~Part of me died that day, too. It is not that I did not mourn my daughters, whom I had lovingly carried in my body those months before their premature arrivals; but Alexander-oh, you completely captured my heart in your brief life. I would have died for you.
I oft wished in the weeks and months after your death that I had died instead of you~
I pressed Alexander’s lock of hair against my cheek and let the tears stream down my face without bothering to wipe them away.
It had been a year-and-a-half since we had lost Alexander. But that night, it seemed like yesterday.
In spite of my dear little Amelia, I still felt so very alone. And I longed for a pair of strong arms to wrap around me, and a pair of broad shoulders to rest my head upon. A deep, warm voice to whisper to me.
Placing the tresses back inside the locket, I slipped beneath the covers and blew out my candle. Curling up, I closed my eyes and pressed my still-wet face against the soft pillow.
~Come to me. Please, come to me.~
Sleep finally came. And so did he.
“My sweet Lizzie, ma petite,” he murmured in my ear as he gathered me into his arms, pressing gentle, light-as-air kisses to my face, stroking my hair with those elegant hands.
“You may cry all you want, my sweet girl. I am here.”
And after all my tears had flowed onto that broad shoulder and he had murmured more tender words into my ear, he slowly, gently took possession of my body once more, as if I were some precious vessel he worshipped . . .
Yes, ‘twas only a dream. But how it comforted me.
*~*~*~*
It is raining to-night in London. I am tucked into one of my bolt-holes on this Saturday’s eve with a bottle of good French wine I liberated from a coach-and-four, some fresh bread and a portion of cheese so sharp it makes me wince to taste it.
I should be making plans for my journey across the Channel to France. I have business and personal matters to which I need to attend. I look over the papers I have assembled on the small table, but my mind wanders.
I push them away, dip back my head, parting my lips in a long sigh as I rub my nose.
I could wrap myself in my cloak, stroll the damp, dirty streets and seek out some pretty tart who is bemoaning the nasty weather’s tendency to cut into her trade. I would pay her enough that she would not feel the pain of lost customers.
And I would leave her with a contented smile.
But I do not want to do that, either. ‘Tis rather surprising, when one thinks of it, of me, the sort of man I am. My needs and my appetites are strong.
I push my chair away from the table and rise to my feet, quickly crossing the small, snug room to where my frockcoat hangs on a peg.
Slipping my hand inside the hidden pocket, I withdraw the pouch and open it. Plucking out the strand of soft chestnut hair, I wind it around my finger. I sniff it to catch a whiff of her scent.
It reminds me of some other fragrance, one from long, long ago, one I cannot quite place.
I close my eyes and think of how a pair of fine emerald eyes glittered as she raised the candelabra before going down to met Barkley. Of her smile, sweet and flirtatious and sad all at once.
It would surely be better for Lizzie to never see me again. Perhaps, better for me, too.
Yet, I hope, dearly hope it will not be so.
For part of me longs to hold her in my arms again, and, perhaps, wipe away the pain in those eyes.
Eyes that haunt me . . .
*~*~*~*~*
It was time to depart from Algernon Hall. Servants had gone in advance to remove all the dust sheets, air out the London house, prepare the bed chambers and stock the larder and wine cellar.
The servants left behind had covered the Algernon Hall furnishings, cleaned out the larder, locked up the tea and strong drink and shuttered the windows. A few members of the staff would remain to keep the garden well tended and to care for the horses and hounds that would not accompany us to London.
I had directed the housekeeper, Mrs. Bunting, and she had directed everyone else, stern taskmaster that she is.
Amelia, of course, had carefully packed my clothing in several trunks, my baubles in jewelry cases, hats in boxes. It is rather a large undertaking, but my maid would not dream of another handling my wardrobe. And I would not dream of suggesting anyone do so. Amelia may be small, but she is quite formidable.
The flurry of activity had been tiring, but it also had its benefits.
It helped keep my melancholy thoughts about my lost children at bay.
And it helped to quiet, if not remove, my yearnings for my highwayman.
Just as his lock of hair remained nested in the locket I wore every night, a little part of him seemed to be with me all the time.
And that gave me a strange sort of comfort.
*~*~*~*
It is a late summer’s day and I am wandering the water’s edge, my stockings stripped off and tucked into the shoes I have left on the beach.
I love the water and I fear it; Tante Louise has warned us all many a time of its dangers. Her huge dark eyes, almost black in that crumpled parchment face, the perfumed powder she applies religiously, emphasizing every crease and crevice; her voice, low and ominous, telling us of children swept away by the sea, never to be seen again, until their storm-battered corpses are tossed like so much flotsam and jetsam on the beach.
I sometimes think she enjoys making us shiver.
But I am also rebellious at heart, I suppose. And so my trepidation over the monsters that might lie beneath the surface is trumped by my desire to flirt with the danger.
I wade into the water, ankle-high, knee-high, waist-high.
Its coolness is so welcome on this unusually hot day.
I close my eyes and raise my face to the sun. I need not worry about the sun browning my skin. I am a man, or will be in another ten or twelve years or so, and I do not need to worry about such feminine fripperies.
The wave envelopes me before I realise what has happened.
The water embraces me fully, my legs and arms flailing to find something, anything to catch on to.
I want to scream out, “Aide-moi, aide-moi” but I cannot. My mouth and lungs fill with the sea water. I am suddenly blind and deaf and I cannot breathe.
Now I know I am going to die, and I do not, do not, do not want to go . . .
I feel a pair of strong hands grasp my arms and lift me up. I break through the surface of the water, sputtering, eyes stinging from the salt in the water, crying and hating myself for crying.
But I do mark, in my distress and humiliation, that, at least, I am not dead.
The strong hands prove to belong to a man, tall like Monsieur, but even broader in his chest. When he speaks, he, too, is deep of voice, but rough-edged, not refined like Monsieur. And he is English.
“Come now, lad, you are going to be just fine. Had the breath knocked out of you by that wave, didn’t you? Go ahead, spit the water out, that’s a good lad.”
He carries me in his arms out of the water. I hear Tante Louise’s cries grow louder as she tries to run across the sand to us, hampered by her skirts and the high-heeled chaussures she insists upon wearing, even in our little coastal village.
“Mon dieu, Guy-est-ce qu’il--” Her voice breaks.
The deep voice rumbles as he replies.
“No harm done, madam. I think the boy was frightened more than anything else. Got caught by surprise, didn’t you?”
I look into that ruddy face, into his bright blue eyes and see a friend.
“Oui, monsieur. I was-surprised.”
Tante Louise heaves a great sigh and makes the sign of the cross as she clutches her rosary with her other hand.
“Merci, Monsieur Clarke. Et pardon. Je lui ai dit --ouf! Plusieurs fois. Attention de la mer, mon petit!”
I can feel a boxing of the ears accompanied by a stern scolding in my future. To be followed by much cosseting. It is Tante Louise’s way. And in her own way, I think she loves me.
She is all I really have. Monsieur is no more than an infrequent visitor into my world, the benefactor of whom I know so little.
On the day I nearly drowned, I do not know my world is about to be taken away from me. Or should I say, I am to be taken away from Tante Louise and all that is familiar.
*~*~*~*
The first portion of our journey to London proved a soggy one. It was raining yet again, a blustery rain, so we had to keep the windows of the carriage covered to keep from getting soaked.
The air felt heavy and close inside. I longed to fling open the covering and stick my head out into the rain; to feel it lashing against my face, never mind what it would do to my coiffure.
I knew, however, that Horace, who sitting across from me, hands folded upon his elegantly-clad knee, would not be in the least bit amused. He would think I had taken leave of my senses.
Sometimes, I wondered if I hadn’t. A faint sigh escaped my lips and I raised a hand to rub my forehead for a moment.
“Are you feeling unwell, my lady?” Amelia, seated beside me, asked.
I smiled at her and shook my head. “Thank you, Amelia, but not. Just a little tired from the flurry of activity preparing for our journey.”
Amelia’s keen grey eyes were studying me once more, her gaze briefly shifting down to the beaded reticule I held snugly against me.
Her lips turned up at the corners, although she maintained a sober expression in her eyes.
“Very good, my lady.”
She sat back wearing a demure expression. The faintest hint of a smug smile played about her lips, however.
Ignoring it, I drew out my fan and unfurled it. “It is so very-warm in here,” I said.
Horace sniffed, pulling a snowy white linen handkerchief from his sleeve and pressing it to his nose.
“Indeed, my lady, but we cannot allow the rain to come in.” One hand stole up to lightly finger his wig.
“I’ve this new peruke which I simply cannot allow to get wet.”
I gave a small nod of acquiescence and smiled. “Indeed not, my lord. T’would be a tragedy indeed if such a beautiful wig were damaged.”
If Horace detected the faint note of sarcasm in my voice, there was no sign of it.
He gave a complacent little smile. “It is Monsieur Pierre’s finest work to date for me.”
I gave a small nod of agreement and fanned myself a little faster to stir the heavy air. Closing my eyes, I began to wonder, as I seemed to so often, what Guy was up to . . .
*~*~*~*
The carriage came to an abrupt stop, jolting me awake.
The sound of the falling rain mingled with voices outside our conveyance, but I could not understand what they were saying.
“What the deuce--” Horace frowned and drew out his watch.
“Can’t possibly have reached our destination for the night yet. There is still plenty of daylight left.”
He muttered peevishly beneath his breath as he opened the window cover, attempting to shield his precious peruke from the elements with his hands as he thrust his head through the opening.
“Why in damnation have we stopped?”
I heard what sounded like muttered oaths coming from our coachmen.
“Beg pardon, my lord. There is a-problem.”
“Well, what is it? A tree down on the road?” Horace drawled.
“Not-exactly, milord.”
Suddenly Horace gasped and leapt back from the window, as much as one could leap in such confined quarters. And one could not blame him, as a large and lethal-looking flintlock was being aimed at Horace’s face, which was rapidly losing its customary high colour.
Amelia gasped. “A robbery . . .” I wasn’t sure if she was scared-or excited. Or of my own response.
“Beg pardon, my lord. But I must ask you to stand and deliver. Your money and your valuables. Now, if you please, my lord.”
My hand reached for Amelia’s and clutched it tightly.
In spite of the muffled nature of the voice, I recognised its rich, dark velvet tones.
It would seem Panther had struck again.
*~*~*~*~*