“Take care, young lady.” The cultured accent matched the young man’s dapper appearance and handsome face. “You only just completed your last swim. I rather believe you lack the strength for another.”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp. He held both palms before her in a show of calm.
“I wish you no injury, miss.” As his gaze swept the river behind Lucy, his eyes dimmed. He whispered, “That should never have happened. Horrible bad luck.”
He watched the current roll by before reengaging Lucy’s eyes and appeared to force a smile. “I wish only to talk, girl.”
Through tear-stained eyes, she glared suspiciously but nodded. He accepted the gesture as affirmation.
“The first order of conversation is the locket around your neck. Let us speak of that.”
Her hand darted to her neck and found with relief that the locket had survived the tumultuous plunge, though now on full display. He watched as she fingered the necklace, his eyes mutely testifying that he understood its meaning. He nodded as if satisfied.
“And just what shall I call you?”
Panic rose anew in Lucy. Her eyes darted wildly in search of escape, but the thick trees pinned her within the man’s reach no matter her direction of flight. She carefully considered her father’s words concerning the locket and his admonition of courage. Though crushed by fear, she straightened her spine and stood primly before the tall man.
“My name is Lucy.”
His eyebrows arched with skepticism. “Lucy, you say? Not Lady Margaret Huntington?”
“My father calls me Lucy.”
He watched her in grim silence. “Very well…Miss Lucy Locket.”
“Just Lucy,” she corrected.
His devilish smile returned as quickly as it had departed. “Oh, no. I believe Lucy Locket is a superior alias. Just as in the vulgar rhyme of the common folk.”
She gazed at him blinking. His smile broadened. “The rhyme? You do not know it?”
She shook her head.
“Well, then allow me to instruct you. The rhyme proceeds thus.”
He stood straight with one hand behind his waist and the other gripping his lapel. When he spoke, he did so in the manner of a stage actor. “Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it. Not a penny was there in it, only ribbon round it.”
He studied her unchanging face before continuing. “There, you see? Lucy Locket. A wonderful alias suitable to your current circumstances, for you have most definitely lost your pocket.”
Reality hammered Lucy again. Fear cascaded upon her and she began to sob anew. The strange man surprised her by gripping her shoulders lightly.
“There, there, Miss Lucy.” His voice was filled with compassion. “I meant no harm. Sometimes my black humor runs away with my mouth, and I have the devil of a time retrieving it. And I’ll have you know that we never harm anyone. Your father is quite safe, I assure you.”
The unexpected hope helped stifle her sobs. “He is?”
“You have my word.” Then the stranger slapped his forehead. “But where are my manners?”
He removed his hat and bowed formally with a flourish of his right hand. “Sir Steadman, at your service.”
He glanced up at her while still in full bow, seeking recognition. She glared at him mutely. He grimaced.
“Sir Steadman? The Beau Monde Highwayman? The Knight of the Road? Have you not heard the name?”
Lucy shook her head with a tear-moistened frown. He stood and replaced his hat. “Just as well. Most of the stories about me are sorely lacking in veracity. I am nothing near seven feet tall, am I?”
She began to shake her head, but the sound of approaching voices drew Steadman’s attention to the forest behind him. He abruptly pivoted to Lucy with features deadly serious and leaned low.
“If you wish to live, then let me hold your locket for you.”
Her grip tightened on the necklace even as her instincts whispered of the truth behind the man’s warning. He held an open hand to her urgently. On impulse, she breathed an apology to her father, slipped the chain over her head, and held it to the man. He took the locket, slipped it into his jacket, and spun to meet four rough and grimy men emerging from the woods.
“You found her,” said a man whose lined face resembled an overripe pumpkin both in shape and texture. “The bloke’s daughter?”
Lucy clenched Steadman’s coattail from behind. He glanced at her and chuckled with resignation. “Sadly, no. This is Miss Lucy Locket, a mere humble servant of the marquess.”
The newcomer stared blankly before, what must have seemed to the man, a brilliant idea slowly captured his beaten face. “Then we ransom her!”
Steadman shook his head. “Wixom. Did I not explain just now that the poor girl is merely a servant?”
The man cocked his head before nodding slowly with piggish eyes. “Yes.”
“Then to whom would we ransom her?”
Wixom considered the question for the space of several seconds. “No one, I guess.”
“Exactly right. Your impeccable logic triumphs once again, Wixom. Well done.”
The man grinned at the backhanded compliment. Steadman clapped a hand on Wixom’s shoulder while still smiling.
“Now, then. It grieves me to also bear horrendously bad tidings regarding our little troupe, my friends.”
The others crowded nearer, intent on Steadman’s ominous pronouncement. The dapper man gathered their attention with a moment of stretched silence.
“Our attempt at simple larceny has gone horribly awry. We have dunked the daughter of the heir to a dukedom in the Thames and endangered her life. And so, we find ourselves in a tenuous situation.”
The men mumbled agreement, while not quite knowing what the situation was. Steadman silenced them with a diffident hand.
“The Crown will surely take offense at this incident and rightly blame us for the unintended outcome. Our sole salvation, then, is to sunder our company and vacate these environs with the greatest of expeditiousness.”
The highwaymen continued to stare at Steadman with slack jaws. He rolled his eyes. “If we remain here together, we will swing from the gallows by nightfall. If you wish to remain safe, then flee immediately.”
Alarm dawned on the collective faces. One by one, the men splintered from the group and left hurriedly through the woods until only Wixom remained. Anxiety reorganized his pumpkin face into a different configuration of lumps.
“What about the girl? Won’t she peach?”
A tremor wracked Lucy’s thin frame as she considered the implied threat behind the question. Steadman placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and responded to the man with a grave tone. “Not to worry, Wixom. I will attend to this one, unpleasant though it might be.”