Prologue
1805, Oxfordshire, England
The arrival of important visitors drove Henry into his secret fortress—a tiny chamber tucked behind a hidden panel in the library. Though cramped and dusty, it provided the perfect refuge for a sullen and wounded twelve-year-old. A narrow slit of window above him admitted early afternoon light that battled the festering shadows.
“Why did you leave me alone, Mother?” he whispered. She did not answer, long-dead as she was. Resigned to solitude, he turned his attention to a worn copy of Robinson Crusoe and began reading where he had stopped during his previous withdrawal. So intent was his focus that he dropped the book when a girl spoke.
“Are you the boy?”
His eyes darted toward the panel door to find a young girl peeking through the opening.
“How did you find me?”
She seemed to accept the question as an invitation to enter. Before he could formulate a plan to repel the invasion, she slipped inside, pressed the panel closed, and seated herself atop a stack of books. She sat very primly with hands clasped in her lap, her russet brown hair framing a confident expression.
“The answer is simple, really.” Henry cocked his head before realizing she was answering his question. “I was informed that there might be a boy here near my age. When I did not see you, I asked your whereabouts from your sister.”
“Charlotte.”
“Yes, Charlotte. She is very kind and quite pretty.”
He nodded but did not speak, so the intruder continued. “She directed me to your secret hiding place and suggested that a visit would not be unwelcome. I slipped away before Father could decide otherwise.”
Henry stared askance at the strange girl, bewildered by her forward manner and sophistication. “Just how old are you?”
She placed a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Nine this past autumn, although I have been told that such a question to a lady is improper. I do not know why. No one will tell me.”
“I don’t know why either. I am Henry, by the way. Second son of the Earl of Ravensheugh. And you are called Margaret?”
She dipped her chin and giggled again. “Nobody calls me Margaret, silly. My father calls me Lucy, after a noble woman he greatly admires. You may call me that as well.”
He scratched his chin. “Should I not call you ‘Lady something or another’ instead? Would not the marquess be offended?”
“I think not. My father is less noble than you might believe.”
The impugning description intrigued Henry. “How so?”
She sighed heavily. “Do you know why he is here to visit your sister’s husband?”
When he shook his head, she leaned near and spoke with an air of conspiracy. “His father, the Duke of Ramsbury, arranged a marriage for him. However, instead of wedding his betrothed, he eloped with a beautiful barmaid and fled to Italy to escape his father’s anger. I was born in Florence, so I have been in exile my entire life.”
She averted her eyes as sadness briefly took hold. However, she recovered to face him again.
“The duke is attempting to disinherit him, and some on the Committee of Privileges are considering his argument. We have visited many members of that committee, such as your brother-in-law, to argue otherwise.” She leaned back again and refolded her hands. “See? Not so noble after all. You calling me Lucy will not offend him in the least.”
Henry gawked at her easy command of language. She seemed twice her stated age. In the silence that followed, they glanced furtively at each other. He finally broke the stalemate. “I have many books here, but none that would interest you.”
“Oh? Such as?”
He retrieved his dropped book from the floor and showed her the cover. She clapped her hands gleefully. “Robinson Crusoe! My favorite!”
His face twisted in disbelief. “Really?”
“Oh, yes! He was a castaway also. But his misfortunes turned out well for him.”
Henry grinned in agreement, feeling very much like a castaway himself. “Right. Do you want to read it together?”
She nodded happily, so he read aloud from the place of interruption. They alternated the reading of chapters until both were squinting in the fading light of late afternoon. Charlotte intervened before darkness swallowed them completely, her face appearing from behind the panel door.
“There you are,” she said to Lucy. “Your party is set to leave so that you may reach the inn before nightfall. Your father is concerned about your whereabouts. You should bid Henry goodbye.”
Lucy stood and curtsied awkwardly to Henry. “Farewell, Friday. Perhaps we will meet again someday.”
He stood and bowed stiffly. “Perhaps.”
She ducked from the room, but Charlotte continued to eye him. “Are you coming?”
He sat down again. Charlotte held him in her gaze a moment longer. “I see. I will save supper for you, then.”
She closed the panel and he heard her footsteps pad away. Left again to solitude, he remained in his fortress until long after the guests had departed. However, his thoughts kept returning to the odd but engaging Lucy, daughter of the heir to a dukedom and fellow exile. He even smiled.
Chapter One
June 1816, Shooter’s Hill, England
Lucy had never intended to become a highwayman.
She had, however, become terribly lost. As a result, she sat astride a horse alongside three disreputable men in a huddle of trees just below the crest of Shooter’s Hill, while waiting for the world to explode.
“Chin up, Lucy Locket.”
She raised her eyes to find Steadman regarding her with a rakish grin. Though two years past thirty, her longtime guardian retained the devastating looks that had earned him the title of Beau Monde Highwayman and the admiration of women of all classes. His smile, however, remained powerless against Lucy.
“You promised,” she said with accusation.
His eyebrows arched slowly. “This again?”
“Yes, this again.” She prodded her mount nearer to his and lowered her voice. “The day you found me at the river, you swore me an oath. In exchange for my compliance, you would never again engage in highway robbery. Was it just a lie? To a lost child?”
Steadman glanced sidelong at his accomplices, who tried to pretend disinterest in the conversation. His mirth fled. “Circumstances change, girl. Lord Colvin championed the new game laws. Now, a poor man wishing to prevent his family from starving can be transported halfway across the world to a prison colony, simply for snaring a pheasant. It is our ethical duty to liberate a horde of gold from that heartless lord, to distribute among those he seeks to starve.”