“Can we not burgle empty country houses as we did some years ago? Or find other methods of parting callous gentlefolk from their riches?”
He shook his head. “No, my dear. Such ventures produce lightly and jeopardize greatly. If I am to risk the gallows, I must do so in pursuit of a small fortune.”
She presented her cheek to him as anger knotted her jaw.
“Do not grit your teeth, Lucy,” he chided gently. “The expression is far too masculine for one as fair as you.”
She exhaled a huff of breath. “Why did you insist on bringing me along, then? Why not leave me in the wilds of Dartmoor as you always have?”
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
He crossed his hands over the saddle and leaned toward her. “I was afraid that when I returned, you would be gone.”
“Gone? Why now? Why after all these years?”
His smile returned, wistful this time. “Because you are a grown woman now. Nearly one and twenty. Because I have taught you how to survive, and you have proved an excellent pupil. Because I have seen the yearning in your eyes of late.”
“Yearning?” Her eyes widened in surprise. Had he guessed her thoughts? “What yearning?”
“To be free. Free of me. Free of my associates. Free of the excuse of a life I have given you.” His ever-present smile became a memory. “I am sorry, Lucy.”
She blinked rapidly. “For…for what?”
Before he could answer, Steadman’s eyes flicked away and his body tensed. The unmistakable clatter of carriage wheels drew nearer. He motioned sharply to his mates, who readied their horses. Then he leaned once more toward her.
“Remain here out of sight. Be ready to fly when the job is finished.”
She nodded dully. Where else could she go at this juncture? Apparently satisfied, Steadman turned to watch the road. Within moments, Lord Colvin’s ornate carriage sailed by. With a shout, Steadman drew a purple scarf to cover most of his face and drove his horse onto the road. His accomplices bolted after him. The fleeting glimpse of the grand vehicle, complete with four white horses, two drivers, and two footmen, stirred long-forgotten memories in Lucy. Images of her real father trickled through her recollection—of the time they had traveled the dusty roads of England together, birds of a feather, thick as thieves. Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. She wiped them away and nudged her horse nearer to the road.
Dust raised by the passing carriage hung in the breeze as the staccato footfalls of the team and pursuers faded on the climb up Shooter’s Hill. She launched a silent prayer that no violence would befall anyone in the minutes to come—robber and robbed alike.
The echo of raised voices marked the moment of intercept. She gripped the reins tighter and moved to the edge of the trees, concerned over the unseen events. Dismal memories of the day Steadman and his men had scattered what remained of her family, even if inadvertently, threatened to overcome her. The shouting settled into barely overheard commands as Lucy peered up the road, but the ambush remained hidden by trees and a gentle bend of the highway. She watched anyway, seemingly for an hour, until another sound stole her attention. She swiveled her head to survey the road in the opposite direction. Within seconds, the sound revealed its origin as four men on horseback—talking loudly—advanced at a trot up the road. Even as she watched, the troupe appeared to realize what was happening ahead and broke into a gallop. The bright red waistcoats of the charging men identified them immediately. She spurred her horse toward the carriage, shouting warning.
“Robin Redbreasts! Robin Redbreasts!”
By the time Lucy rounded the curve and came upon the carriage, Steadman was strapping the last coin bag to the packhorse. His eyes were wide with alarm.
“Robin Redbreasts!” she repeated, just in case he had not understood. “Four approaching at full tilt!”
Steadman immediately began shouting to his men. “Take to the woods to lead them off. Lucy and I will pull the pack horse. We rally at the appointed location.”
In the chaos, the footmen and drivers dove into the trees, leaving the terrified Lord Colvin cowering in his carriage. Lucy was too frightened to empathize. As the pair of accomplices disappeared into the woods on the opposite side of the road, she pressed her mount into the trees behind Steadman, thankful that he had allowed her to wear breeches instead of a dress. The conventional position astride her mount allowed her to lay prone as the horse squeezed beneath branches that flew at her with abandon. She focused doggedly on the horse ahead while wondering if this was how her peculiar journey would end, one way or another.
…
Henry Beaumont’s comrades chattered idly, as they had for the entire ride from London before Stevens mustered the audacity to ask him the question.
“Beaumont, is it true you are the second son of an earl?”
Henry nodded, having expected the question for two days. “Yes.”
Despite already knowing the answer, the three men seemed surprised. Stevens cocked his head and frowned. “And yet you ride with the Bow Street Horse Patrol? It seems rather beneath your station, particularly after your heroics at Waterloo.”
Henry had learned from his days in the cavalry that only frankness would end the uncomfortable line of questioning. “My brother banished me the day he became earl. Now, in my penniless state, Bow Street is as good an option as any.”
He did not explain the rest. That his was a corrupt soul destined for the abyss and his exile was the inevitable result. That the war against France had merely honed his killer instinct. That, desperate to avoid his dismal destiny, he had joined Bow Street after the war. Perhaps hunting criminals would prevent him from becoming one. Perhaps fighting the darkness would prevent it from consuming him. As the road began climbing Shooter’s Hill, his soul-searching was bluntly interrupted by familiar sounds on the highway ahead.
Conflict.
“Listen!” Henry whispered sharply as he peered up the road. “Something is happening up there.”
The sound of strident voices became clearly audible when the men fell silent. As one, they pulled flintlocks and spurred their mounts into a gallop. Within seconds, a horse, carrying a woman dressed as a man—trousers and all—darted from the woods and fled away from them. Light brown hair flew behind her as she shouted warning.
“Robin Redbreasts!”
Henry spurred his horse harder until a halted carriage came into view. Liveried servants emerged quickly from the trees with chaotic explanations of what had happened. Henry silenced the rattled men.
“Where did they go?”
The servants pointed in three different directions. Stevens took charge and drove his horse into the woods in one of the indicated directions. “This way! They have raised a trail.”