My Lady Notorious

SIGNET

Copyright © Jo Beverley, 1993

Excerpt of
Lord of My Heart
copyright © Jo Beverley, 1992

All rights reserved

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the authors imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The great crested coach lurched along the Shaftesbury road, over
ruts turned rock-like by a sharp November frost. Lounging inside,
glossy boots up on the opposite seat, was a lazy-eyed young gentleman
in a suit of dark blue laced with silver. His features were smooth,
tanned, and on the pretty side of handsome, but his taste for
decoration was moderate. His silver lacing merely edged the front of
his coat; his only jewels were a sapphire on his lax right hand, and a
pearl and diamond pin in his softly knotted cravat. His unpowdered
russet hair was irrepressibly wavy but tamed into a neat pigtail fixed
with black bows at top and bottom.

This hairstyle was the work of his
valet de chambre
, a middle-aged man who sat upright beside his master, a small jewel box clasped firmly on his lap.

At yet another creaking sway, Lord Cynric Malloren sighed and
resolved to hire a riding horse at the next stop. He had to escape this
damned confinement.

Being an invalid was the very devil.

He’d finally managed to persuade his solicitous brother, the
Marquess of Rothgar, that he was up to traveling, but only on a gentle
two-day journey to Dorset to visit his elder sister and her new baby.
And only in this monstrous vehicle, complete with fur rugs for his
legs, and hot bricks for his feet. Now he was returning home,
progressing like a fragile grandmother back to sibling care and warm
flannel.

The shouted command was merely a welcome relief from tedium. It took
a second before Cyn realized he was actually being held up. His valet
turned pale and crossed himself, muttering a stream of French prayers.
Cyn’s eyes lost their lazy droop.

He straightened and flashed a quick glance at his rapier in its
scabbard on the opposite seat, but dismissed it. He had little faith in
stories of highwaymen who fenced with their victims for the gold.
Instead he pulled the heavy double-barreled pistol out of the holster
by his seat and deftly checked that it was clean and loaded in both
barrels.

A cruder weapon than a blade, but in this situation a good deal more effective.

The coach came to rest at an angle. Cyn studied the scene outside.
It was late in the short day and the nearby pines cast deep shadows in
the red of the setting sun, but he could still see the two highwaymen
quite clearly. One was back among the trees, covering the scene with a
musket. The other was much closer and armed with two elegant
silver-mounted dueling pistols. Stolen? Or was this a true gentleman of
the road? His steaming mount was a fine bit of blood.

Cyn decided not to shoot anyone yet. This adventure was too
enlivening to be cut short, and he had to admit that the distant
villain would be a tricky shot in the fading light, even for him.

Both highwaymen wore encompassing black cloaks, tricorn hats, and
white scarves around the lower part of their faces. It wouldn’t be easy
to describe them if they escaped, but Cyn was at heart a gambler,
though he rarely played for coin. He would let these dice roll.

“Down off the box,” the nearby man ordered gruffly.

The coachman and groom obediently climbed down. At a command, they
lay face-down on the frosty grass verge. The second highwayman came
closer to guard them.

The coach swayed as the masterless horses shifted.

Jerome gave a cry of alarm. Cyn put out a hand to brace himself, but
he didn’t take his eyes from the two highwaymen. The team should be too
tired to bolt. He was proved correct as the coach became still again.

“Now, you inside,” barked the nearer villain, both barrels trained on the door. “Out. And no tricks.”

Cyn considered shooting the man—he could guarantee to put a ball
through his right eye at this distance— but restrained himself. Others
could be endangered, and neither his pride nor his valuables were worth
an innocent life.

He laid the pistol beside his sword, opened the door, and stepped
down. He turned to assist his valet, who had a weak leg, then flicked
open his
grisaille
snuffbox, shook back the Mechlin lace at
his cuff, and took a pinch. He snapped the box shut, then faced the
highwayman’s pistols. “How may I help you, sir?”

The man seemed stunned by this reaction, but recovered. “You may help me to that pretty box, for a start.”

Cyn had to work to keep his face straight. Perhaps it was the shock
of his bland reaction to robbery, but the thief had forgotten to
control his voice. Now he sounded well-bred and quite young. Scarcely
more than a boy. Any desire to see him hang seeped away, and his
curiosity gathered strength.

He flicked open the box again and approached. “You wish to try my sort? It is a tolerable blend…”

He had not intended to throw the powder in the robber’s face, but
the thief was no fool and backed his horse away. “Keep your distance.
I’ll have the box—tolerable sort an‘ all—along with your money, and any
jewels or other valuables.”

“Certainly,” said Cyn with a careless shrug. He took the box Jerome
clutched, which contained his pins, fobs, and other trinkets, and
placed the snuffbox inside. From his pockets he added some coins and
notes. With some regret he slid off the sapphire ring, and pulled out
the pearl-and-diamond pin; they had sentimental value.

“You clearly have more need of all this than I, my good man. Shall I
put the box by the road? You can collect it when we’re gone.”

There was another stunned silence. Then: “You can damn well lie down in the dirt with your servants!”

Cyn raised his brows. He brushed a speck of fluff from the sleeve of
his coat. “Oh, I don’t think so. I have no desire to become dusty.” He
faced the man calmly. “Are you going to kill me for it?”

He saw the man’s trigger finger tighten and wondered if for once
he’d misplayed his hand, but there was no shot. After a thwarted
silence, the young man said, “Put your valuables in the coach and get
on the box. I’m taking the coach, and you can be my coachman, Mr. High
and Mighty!”

“Novel,” drawled Cyn with raised brows. “But aren’t stolen coaches a trifle hard to fence?”

“Shut your lip or I’ll shut it for you!”

Cyn had the distinct feeling the highwayman was losing patience—a reaction he’d been causing all his life.

“Do what I tell you,” the rogue barked. “And tell your men to take
their time walking for help. If we’re overtaken, you’ll get the first
shot.”

Cyn obediently addressed the servants. “Go on to Shaftesbury and
rack up at the Crown. If you don’t hear from me in a day or so, send
word to the Abbey and my brother will take care of you. Don’t worry
about this. It’s just a young friend playing a jape, and I have a mind
to join in the fun.” He addressed the coachman. “Hoskins, if Jerome’s
leg tires him, you must go ahead and find some transportation for him.”

He then turned to the highwayman. “Am I permitted to put on my surtout and gloves, sir, or is this to be a form of torture?”

The man hesitated but said, “Go on, then. But I’ll have you covered every second.”

Cyn reached into the coach for his caped greatcoat and shrugged into
it, then pulled on his black kid gloves, reflecting wryly that any
amount of driving would ruin them. He considered the pistol for a
moment but then dismissed it. He wanted to go along with this caper a
while longer.

Protected from the frosty air, he climbed up on the box and took the
four sets of reins into competent hands. He quickly familiarized
himself with the pattern on each which identified wheelers and leaders.
“What now, my good man?”

The highwayman glared at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re a rum ‘un
and no mistake.” When Cyn made no reply, the highwayman hitched his
horse to the back and swung up beside him. He pocketed one pistol but
poked the other in Cyn’s side. “I don’t know what your game is, but
you’ll pull no tricks with me. Drive.”

Cyn flicked the team into action. “No tricks,” he promised. “But I
do hope that pistol lacks a hair trigger. This is a very uneven road.”

After a moment, the pistol was moved so it pointed slightly away. “Feel safer?” the man sneered.

“Infinitely. Where are we going?”

“Never you mind. I’ll tell you when you need to turn. For now, just hold your tongue.”

Cyn obeyed. He could sense the baffled fury emanating from his
captor and had no desire to taunt him into firing. In truth, he didn’t
wish to taunt the fool at all. He’d rather kiss him on both cheeks for
breaking the monotony of his days. He’d had his fill of being cossetted.

He glanced around and realized the second villain had gone on ahead.
Risky, but he supposed they thought a pistol held against him would
keep him in order.

It might. He was feeling kindly disposed.

Being hovered over by his siblings might have been tolerable if he’d
been wounded in action, but when he’d been brought down by a mere
fever… ! And now none of them would believe he was recovered enough to
rejoin his regiment. He’d considered overriding the arranged plan and
commanding Hoskins to head for London, where he could demand an army
medical.

There would be little point, however, for at a word from Rothgar some lingering weakness would doubtless be discovered.

Just as a word from Rothgar had procured him fast transport to the
Abbey, and the best medical care along the way, while better men
sweated out their fevers or died in overcrowded hospitals in Plymouth.
Or back in the primitive conditions in Acadia. Rothgar could even have
been behind him being shipped home from Halifax in the first place.

Damn Rothgar and his mollycoddling.

No one in his right mind would describe the formidable marquess,
Cyn’s eldest brother, as a mother hen, but upon their parents’ deaths
he had taken his five siblings under his autocratic wing and God help
anyone who tried to harm them. Even the forces of war.

Rothgar seemed particularly protective of Cyn. This was partly
because he was the baby of the family, but it was also his damned
looks. Despite all evidence to the contrary people would persist in
seeing him as fragile, even his family who certainly should know better.

He alone of the family had been gifted with the full glory of his
mother’s delicate bones, green-gold eyes, russet-red hair, and lush
lashes. His sisters—particularly his twin sister—had frequently asked
heaven why such an unfair thing should have come about.

Cyn frequently asked the same question with the same amount of
desperation. As a boy he’d believed age would toughen his looks, but at
twenty-four, a veteran of Quebec and Louisbourg, he was still
disgustingly
pretty
. He had to fight duels with nearly every new officer in the regiment to establish his manhood.

“Turn in the lane ahead.” The highwayman’s voice jerked Cyn out of
his reverie. He obediently guided the horses into the narrow lane,
straight into the setting sun.

He narrowed his eyes against the glare. “I hope it isn’t much
further,” he remarked. “It’ll be dark soon and there’s little moon
tonight.”

“It’s not far.”

In the gathering cold, steam rose off the team like smoke from a fire. Cyn cracked the whip to urge the tired horses on.

The youth lounged back, legs spread in contemptuous ease as he tried
to convey the impression of age and hardened wickedness. It was unwise.
The cloak had fallen open and the slenderness of the legs revealed by
the lounging position reinforced Cyn’s suspicion that he was dealing
with a mere stripling. He noticed, however, that the pistol remained at
the ready, and silently gave the lad credit.

No fool, this one.

So what had led the young man into this rash escapade? A dare? Gaming debts he couldn’t confess to Papa?

Cyn didn’t sense true danger here, and his nose for danger was
highly developed. He’d been a soldier in wartime since the age of
eighteen.

He remembered the explosion in his family when he’d run off to
enlist. Rothgar had refused to buy him a commission and so Cyn had
taken the shilling. The marquess had dragged him home, but after
battles of will that left bystanders shaking, his brother had given in
and bought him an ensigncy in a good regiment. Cyn had never regretted
it. He demanded excitement, but unlike many other sprigs of the
aristocracy he had no taste for pointless mayhem.

He glanced at his captor. Perhaps a military career would suit this
young rascal. Some curious thought tickled the back of his mind and he
ran his eyes over the youth. Then he had it. He stilled a twitch of his
lips and concentrated on the team as he absorbed the new information.
Judging from the smoothness at the juncture of ‘his’ thighs, Cyn’s
captor was a woman.