“Locket.”
“Lucy Locket? Like the common street rhyme?”
“Yes, like that. You were saying?”
“Oh, yes. Your brilliant plan ignores the fact that the magistrate recently placed a moratorium on lower members of Bow Street claiming any reward for retrieved property, pending a mysterious ongoing investigation. Furthermore, should you return the money in person, you will be hanged.”
She glanced back at him again, her face stricken. “Hanged?”
“Yes. The penalty for highway robbery is death by hanging, with the body subsequently displayed in a gibbet at a crossroads until it rots. Several Bow Street patrolmen witnessed your participation in the robbery. While I might not testify to that fact, they will.”
“But I did not participate in the robbery.” The tremor of her words revealed deep dismay.
“You did, Miss Locket. It is a standard strategy of highwaymen to post sentries along the road to warn of lawmen. You shouted warning to the crew, without which we might have apprehended them on the spot. You are an accomplice, regardless of your intentions.”
“But you promised not to surrender me to Bow Street.”
“And I stand by that promise. But my associates may not.”
Her face fell before she turned away. Her shoulders began to shake as she cried silently. For the first time, he felt mild pity for the young woman’s situation. However, he pushed the emotion aside with the righteous logic that she alone was responsible for her unfavorable circumstances.
Chapter Three
Lucy rode ahead in silence for some time, first in shock from her apparent complicity in the crime, and then grieving the death of her newborn plan. Dismay gave way to frustration, which eventually found an outlet toward the Redbreast.
“You must have enjoyed that.”
“Enjoyed what,” he said.
“Crushing my plan with your foul logic and then sentencing me to hang. I imagine you cannot deem a day successful unless you ruin someone. Consider your day fulfilled.”
“Oh, but of course. I especially enjoy the suffering of widows and orphans, and regularly stand outside workhouses hurling taunts and epithets at the desperately poor. I am not nearly as noble as you are, Saint Lucy.”
She shifted in her saddle to face him. “That is yet another point of vexation. You know my name but I do not know yours. Although I might never tire of inventing humiliating monikers for you, I would rather address you by name.” With sarcasm she added, “As befits your station.”
He frowned as if considering the prudence of sharing his name. Then he rolled his eyes. “Very well. Mr. Henry Beaumont, son of the late Earl of Ravensheugh.”
She cocked her head to one side with surprise. That was a name she had not heard for half a lifetime. “Henry Beaumont?”
“Yes.”
“From Ravensheugh in Northumberland?”
“As I said.”
She faced the trail ahead, recalling a long-ago visit and a reclusive boy. She shook her head and mumbled, “You have changed, Friday.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
They rode tacitly onward for another hour until dusk forced a consideration of logistics.
“We should stop for the night and ride on at first light,” said Henry.
Lucy frowned. “The others might be on our trail. I say we ride through the night.”
“This is something you do regularly, then? Ride in pitch darkness?”
“No.”
“Have you ever ridden in pitch darkness?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you do not realize that such action endangers both you and your mount. If your horse breaks a leg or you crack your skull, then Bow Street or your accomplices will catch you, regardless.”
She wanted to disagree but found no means to penetrate his simple logic. “As you wish, Sir Know-It-All. Perhaps you might suggest an appropriate campsite as well, since I, a mere woman, cannot be trusted with such a difficult decision.”
“By all means, Lucy of the Wood,” came his thickly sarcastic reply. “I happily abdicate that decision to you. Unless, of course, it taxes your feeble mind too greatly.”
She huffed loudly. “We cross the creek and camp away from the trail where we might hide the horses. If that pleases your lordship.”
“It does.”
Lucy led the way across the shallow creek and into a stand of trees clinging to the far bank. When she could no longer hear the water, she halted the horses in a tiny clearing beneath a ring of stately birches. Without waiting for Henry, she dismounted, unsaddled her mount, and began relieving the packhorse of its burden. He stepped forward to help with the heavy leather bags packed with gold coins.
“A question nags me,” he said while lifting a bag.
“Oh?”
“Where did you learn to handle a rapier?”
She chuckled. “A foil, actually, although the rapier is quite similar. I learned from Steadman. His associates are, shall I say, less than civil. He required that I know how to handle a blade in the event that a guest decided to take liberties with me.”
“Steadman? Sir Steadman? The Beau Monde Highwayman has returned, then?”
Lucy blanched. She had betrayed her mentor without thinking, condemned him perhaps. Henry appeared to notice her dismay. A hint of a smile warmed his face, further revealing his handsome features.
“Bow Street suspected as much. It was just such a rumor that brought us to Shooter’s Hill.”
She found unexpected solace in his words. “Oh.”
He narrowed his eyes with apparent and surprising concern. “And did any of Sir Steadman’s associates ever…take liberties?”
“Never. They were all too fearful of him to consider such a notion. In fact, today was the first time I have used a blade against anyone in earnest.”
“I see. That explains it.”
“Explains what.”
“Your inferior form. Your balestra was timid and your parry was late.”
She cocked her head and smirked. “And yet I disarmed you.”
“Only because you took me by surprise.”
“Or, sir, perhaps you require additional practice. What would your noble friends say if they knew a woman had bested you with a sword?”
His grin faded to a scowl. “They would say that we should sleep now, because first light comes far too soon.”