‘I must be growing old. You’d be glad of the rest though, eh, Devon? Let’s go home.’ He patted the horse’s neck, staring thoughtfully ahead of him. ‘I think another time we should go west and try the Barnet-Hatfield road, where there’s more likelihood of taking a decent purse.’
Adhering to his decision, the next night Ralph rode west from the inn, joining the London road just south of Hatfield. The weather continued dry, although it was a little blustery, with heavy clouds moving across the sky and occasionally obscuring the moon. Keeping to the shelter of the woodland bordering the highway, he turned his horse south, moving slowly through the trees, his senses fixed upon the road a few yards away. He was wrapped warmly against the chill wind that moaned through the trees, and Devon moved steadily beneath him, as silent as his master.
Little passed along the road: a gentleman with his lady riding pillion behind him had come along, but the moonlight had shown the fellow to be a clergyman, and not a very prosperous one, Ralph guessed, if his living did not run to a carriage, and he had let them pass unhindered. Now there was silence, save for the wind’s sighing. Ralph judged it to be about ten o’clock, and he guessed that anyone who had gone visiting that evening would soon be travelling home if they were to take advantage of the moonlight.
Sure enough, the rumble of a carriage sounded in the distance. Devon pricked up his ears and snorted expectantly: he knew the game. Ralph gathered up the reins in one hand and with the other he took out his pistol. Then, in the shadow of the trees, they waited. Ralph could hear the coach quite clearly now: it seemed to be moving at speed through the darkness. A few moments later the dark shape could be seen, the carriage lamps bobbing and twinkling as the coach swayed over the broken roads.
As it thundered nearer Ralph pulled his silk kerchief over his face and at a touch from his heels Devon sprang forward, appearing before the coach so suddenly that the leaders shied and reared, and the coachman instinctively reined in his team. Observing that this worthy fellow was wholly engaged in regaining control of his horses, Belham turned his attention to the footman clinging to the straps at the rear of the coach. He waved one of his pistols at the man.
‘Come along now, me lad!’ he cried in a hearty voice, ‘Just you climb down and stand out on the road, where I can see you. That’s better. Now, stand there nice and peaceful and it’s no harm will come to you.’
‘What the devil is going on!’ demanded an angry voice from within the carriage.
‘Just step down, sir, before I spoil your elegant carriage by putting a bullet through one of your new glass windows!’ called Belham jovially.
The carriage door opened and a large gentleman jumped down to the road. The brim of his lace-edged hat kept his face in shadow, until he looked up at Belham, when the full light of the moon illuminated his countenance. Ralph’s brows rose fractionally in surprise, then he threw back his head and laughed as he recognized the bearded face of James Boreland.
The two men regarded each other, Boreland scowling as he looked up at the highwayman.
‘So this amuses you, does it?’ he growled. ‘Only get down from that horse and I wager you would not find it so congenial!’
‘Damme, Boreland, do you take me for a fool? Just hand over your purse and your watch and you can be on your way.’
‘So, you know me, eh? How is that – were you in my employ, mayhap, and turned off for dishonesty?’
‘Devil a bit!’ retorted Belham cheerfully. ‘You were ever too much the villain for my taste. And tell your men to keep very still,’ he added sharply, as the footman tried to edge back towards the coach. ‘This pistol is aimed at your heart, Boreland.’
At a barked word of command from his master, the footman froze, and having assured himself that the coachman, with his team now under control, showed no signs of reaching for a shotgun, Ralph returned his attention to the carriage.
‘Who else is in there?’
‘My wife.’
‘Then she had best come out and join us. Quickly now!’
Boreland helped his wife to alight from the coach and she stood, pale and still beside the steps. Belham inclined his head towards her.
‘Good evening, ma’am! No need to look so anxious. I’ll not trouble you.’ He chuckled. ‘By God, being married to this fellow must be trial enough for you, ma’am! But now you, sir, empty your pockets.’
With a sly glance at the masked horseman, Boreland reached into his pocket. Keeping his eyes upon the pistol that remained steadily pointed at his body, he slowly drew forth his purse. As he brought his hand clear of his pocket, the purse slipped from his fingers, and with a muttered oath he bent to retrieve it. Too late Belham saw the small silver pistol in his hand: there was a loud retort, Devon snorted and drew back, feeling his master jerk in the saddle.
‘That’s for you, my pretty villain!’ snarled Boreland triumphantly. ‘I’ll take great pleasure in watching you rot from a gibbet!’
Belham backed his horse, and despite the pain he managed to laugh.
‘Not yet, Boreland!’ he said, taking careful aim. ‘I’m not that easy to kill!’
Even as he spoke he squeezed the trigger. Isobel Boreland screamed as her husband staggered, then collapsed. As if released from a dream, his footman ran forward.
‘‘Fore Gad, he’s dead!’ he cried shrilly. ‘You’ve killed ‘im!’
‘That was my intention,’ muttered Belham, putting away his gun. The servants were too busy attending to their mistress, who had fallen into hysterics over her husband’s lifeless form, to hear him. He turned his horse and dug in his heels, sending Devon off across country at a gallop.
* * * *
Elinor was dozing before the fire when her ears caught the first faint sounds of a footstep on the stair. As the wall panel opened she turned, but the words of welcome died unspoken on her lips when Ralph staggered into the room. She jumped up and ran forward, reaching him just as he was about to collapse. It took all her strength to support the wounded man and she was obliged to almost carry him to the bed. As he sank down upon the covers she caught sight of the blood upon her hands, and with a smothered exclamation rushed to the door to summon help.
Returning to the bed Elinor felt a cold chill run through her. Ralph’s greatcoat was undone and in the dim lamplight she could see the dark stain spreading over his velvet riding jacket. Feverishly she unbuttoned the coat and the waistcoat beneath, finally tearing away the blood-soaked shirt to reveal the small wound in his flesh, just below the ribs, from which the flood still oozed. Elinor looked around for something to stanch the blood and in desperation she snatched the kerchief from around the neck of her gown, almost sobbing as she bundled it up and pressed it over the wound. His eyes flickered open and he smiled faintly when he saw her.
‘Damned fellow caught me unawares,’ he breathed. ‘I should have known better.’
‘Hush now, don’t talk,’ Elinor told him, trying to keep her voice level. ‘Save your strength. I have told Becky to send for a doctor.’
‘Too late for that.’
‘No!’ muttered Elinor, blinking back the tears. ‘I won’t let you die!’
The kerchief was now red with blood, and it was with relief that Elinor saw Mistress Carew enter the room, carrying a jug of water and a pile of fresh cloths over one arm. The landlady took one look at the figure on the bed and hurried across the room, firmly but gently easing Elinor aside and applying herself to the task of cleaning up the wound, all the time keeping up a constant flow of small talk.
‘So it’s come to this! I knew how it would be if you didn’t give up this way of life. I hope you’re satisfied, Master Ralph, and it’s the Lord’s help we shall need now to get you out of this pass!’
Elinor was engaged in wiping his face with a damp cloth, and she was heartened by the faint chuckle with which he greeted the landlady’s words.
‘No sermons, Megs, I beg of you. Just get me into bed – I’m damned tired.’
‘Aye, all in good time, sir. First we must bind you up so that you don’t bleed to death before the doctor can get to you. I’ve sent Jem to see if old Doctor Brookes will come out to you, but I don’t expect to see him much before morning.’
Together the women set to work: it was clear that Ralph was in great pain, and Elinor could not be sorry when he fainted. When they had finished, she pulled up a chair, expressing her intention of sitting beside him until the doctor arrived.
‘One of us must do so, surely,’ muttered Megs as she gathered up the blood-stained rags ready to take them away. ‘I confess I don’t like the look of him. The bullet’s lodged somewhere inside, and heaven knows what damage it may have done.’
She went away, shaking her head, and leaving Elinor to watch over the injured man. He lay still, even in the dim lamplight his face looking unnaturally pale. Elinor sat beside the bed, her senses alert for the smallest change in his condition. She had no idea how long she remained thus, although it must have been some hours, for the fire was almost out before she noticed it and got up to pile on more wood and bring it back to life. When she returned to the bed Ralph was stirring: his eyelids flickered, and he looked at her blankly for a few moments before recognition dawned.
‘Elinor …’ He began to cough, and Elinor dropped to her knees beside the bed.
‘I’m here, my dear.’ She wiped his lips, observing with dismay that there was blood in the spittle.
‘Fetch me some brandy.’
Elinor shook her head, reaching for the glass that stood nearby.
‘There’s only water here, or if you are in pain, Megs has left you a sleeping draught…’
‘Give me the water then.’ His words were scarce above a whisper. ‘Elinor, I must tell you…’
‘Later, love. Here, let me help you up a little.’ She supported him while he took a few sips from the glass that she held to his lips, gently lowering him back onto the pillows when he had finished.
‘No, it can’t wait.’ He reached for her hand, his grasp so weak it made Elinor’s heart ache with sadness for him. ‘It was Boreland, Elinor. James Boreland was on the road tonight.’
‘Dear God, no!’
He smiled at her shocked countenance.
‘Aye, a merry jest, ain’t it, m’dear? I thought how we’d laugh over it when I told you.’
‘Oh Ralph!’ Elinor felt the tears prick her eyelids and she blinked rapidly, unwilling to let him see her distress. His grip upon her hand tightened.
‘He’ll not bother you any more, Elinor. With his bullet in me I knew I had to finish him. He’s dead, child, another name off your list…’
Ralph closed his eyes, exhausted by his efforts, and Elinor felt the long fingers that enclosed her hand losing their grip. She heard a faint sigh, as if he was at last relieved of the pain, and then he was still. She called his name, but there was no response, no flicker of movement in his face. With trembling hands she felt for a heartbeat, but there was none. Then, clutching at his lifeless hand, Elinor buried her face in the covers and cried.
* * * *
Viscount Davenham’s enquiries into Lord Thurleigh’s affairs were proving fruitless, until chance took him one evening to an exclusive gaming hell in St James’s. It was not one of Davenham’s usual haunts, but having previously agreed to meet a party of friends there, the viscount attended somewhat reluctantly. His pleasure in the evening diminished still further when Lord Thurleigh joined the table, but as the cards were dealt for a fresh hand, a name was mentioned that claimed his attention and, he noted, Lord Thurleigh’s.
The marquis looked up from his cards to enquire casually: ‘What was that you were saying about Boreland?’
The gentleman concerned was too busy studying his hand to look up, but he replied readily enough.
‘I was saying ‘twas a pity about the poor fellow. Roads aren’t safe for anyone these days.’
‘Why, what happened to him?’ asked Davenham.
‘‘Od rat it, sir! Do ye not know?’ cried a red-faced gentleman in a brown bag-wig. ‘The fellow’s dead. Shot, you know, by some rascally highwayman!’
The viscount was surprised by the news, but a glance at Lord Thurleigh showed the marquis looking stunned. His naturally pale face looked ashen, and a muscle worked at the side of his mouth.
‘When was this?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh, about a week since,’ replied the red-faced man. ‘I heard that Boreland was returning to Weald Hall with his wife one night when he was set upon. His servants carried him to the nearest inn, but he was dead before they could fetch a surgeon to him.’ He noted the sceptical look upon Lord Thurleigh’s countenance and added by way of explanation: ‘I had it from old Browning. He was staying at the inn that night on his way back to Town. The arrival of Boreland’s wife and servants with their master’s body caused no small commotion, and when Browning discovered the cause of all the fuss I believe he almost went off himself, with fright!’
‘I can well believe it,’ laughed a fellow-player.
‘And he was certain it was a highwayman?’ Thurleigh spoke coolly enough, but Davenham’s close scrutiny detected a faint tremor in my lord’s fingers as he sorted his cards.
‘Aye, no reason to doubt it. There have been several accounts of villains working that road in recent months. There was one thing, though: Boreland’s men said their master put a bullet in the fellow before he got away.’
‘Well, let’s hope it proves fatal,’ muttered a gentleman in a flowered waistcoat. ‘Never liked James Boreland above half, but I don’t say I wished the fellow any harm. His wife’s had a run of dashed bad luck recently.’
‘Oh?’ Davenham could not resist the question.
‘Come now, Davenham!’ laughed the red-faced gentleman. ‘Surely you knew that Isobel Boreland has been trying to find a bride for that half-wit son of hers? Carried off that French widow – what was her name, now….?’
‘de Sange.’
‘Aye, that’s the one. She took her off to Weald Hall before Christmas, hoping to make a match there, if rumours are to be believed, but it came to nought. By all accounts the woman quit in something of a hurry, leaving Boreland and his wife as mad as fire. He even sent to Town, looking for her, but she’s gone to earth, disappeared!’