“On the contrary, ma’am, I value it very little. Strange as it may seem to you, I nevertheless have an aversion to taking the lives of others, even a couple of incompetent footpads. A pistol tends to have a very final effect. Besides the sword is infinitely more entertaining.”
“And amusement is the overriding purpose of your life?”
“Perhaps. Besides, I abhor incompetence. For their bumbling, those footpads deserved humiliation a little more than death, wouldn’t you say?”
“And you, of course, are always competent?”
“I have tried to be, Miss Hunter. In my experience, competence counts a great deal more than good intentions. The times when I have had the second without the first are those that have haunted me for the rest of my life.”
“Then you must allow me to be grateful that you had both tonight.”
She was not to have the indulgence of a reply. He merely shrugged and they clattered on together without exchanging another word. However she might try, he was not going to allow her to thank him for her rescue. Yet she was under no illusion about the fate that might have awaited her had he not. But perhaps it really was only an amusement to him. And had his own interest in John Catchpole not been involved, would he have risked his life to save hers?
Within half an hour they had left the city behind and were racing past sleeping villages and farmsteads. The earlier drizzle had stopped and an almost full moon had risen to cast its pale glow over the frosty countryside. In two days it would be December. The surface of the turnpike was frozen hard and echoed hollow beneath the horses’ hooves.
Dagonet kept the team at a steady canter and they settled into their pace. There was an eerie beauty to the scene. Dark trees stood silent sentinel beside the road, the silhouette of their empty branches stark against the night sky.
Catherine glanced at Dagonet where he sat beside her. His dark hair was blown back from his forehead. The classic profile was set like marble in the moonlight. In their soft gloves, his capable hands kept the horses well up into their bits. He was, of course, supremely competent. What must he think of her? She had behaved abominably, ruining his chances of interviewing John Catchpole himself. He was perfectly right, it had never been any business of hers. She must appear an insufferably interfering busybody. The thought caused her more pain than she wanted to admit.
When they clattered into the first posting inn, they had been traveling for almost two hours. The lights and the bustle took Catherine by surprise. The rhythmic movement of the carriage had lulled her into a state dangerously close to sleep. Dagonet directed her into the warm parlor while he oversaw the change of horses. There was hot chocolate waiting by a roaring fire. She set aside her cloak for a minute and allowed the flames to thaw out her frozen limbs. Whether she could manage another four hours she wasn’t sure, but she certainly wasn’t going to let Dagonet see that she was tired. He seemed to have inexhaustible reserves of energy. It was not five minutes before he was handing her back into the carriage, where a fresh hot brick awaited her feet.
“Are you all right?” he said. “We shall be another hour before we change horses again at Reading. These post horses will not be able to keep up the pace for as long as my own team.”
“I am perfectly fresh, thank you,” she lied, and once again they drove away in silence.
They had just passed the little village of Hare, and were dipping down across the Thames bridge and up the steep slope of the climb out on the other side when Dagonet was forced to haul the horses to an abrupt halt.
Due to the gradient of the hill, he had already steadied them into a slow trot, when three horsemen burst out of the black woods beside the road and galloped across their bow. The phaeton skidded sideways as the post horses shied. Catherine grabbed desperately at the edge of the seat to prevent herself from being thrown out. Each man wore a dark greatcoat, but that was not what made Catherine’s heart thump in her chest. Their faces were covered with black cloth, so that nothing was visible of their features but the glitter of their eyes, and each man trained a pistol unerringly at the phaeton. The moonlight danced off the barrels, no doubt well-greased, primed and ready to fire.
“If I could trouble you for your purse, sir?” the nearest of the highwaymen said, politely bowing a little from the waist to acknowledge Catherine. “It’s rather late to be out on such a cold night, wouldn’t you say?”
“I might say the same about you, sir,” Dagonet replied. “Too cold, surely to keep a very steady aim.”
“I’m reputed a crack shot, sir,” the highwayman replied instantly. “In any weather!”
“You would seem to be a sporting gentleman.” Dagonet’s tone was only slightly mocking. “I wager you my purse that you are not such a good shot as I.”
Instantly one of the other horsemen rode over to his friend and began to remonstrate. “Come on, Joe. We can take the gentleman’s purse for free. There’s no need to wager over it.”
But obviously Joe had one aim in life even beyond that of stealing gold: to uphold the reputation of his fellow gentlemen of the road and conduct himself with the true aplomb of an aristocrat. Weren’t the broadsheets full of the gallant exploits of Dick Turpin and Sixteen String Jack? They may have died at Tyburn Tree, but their names had gone down in history.
He ignored his friend. “Any of us can out-shoot you, sir!” he replied to Dagonet. “I’ll wager your purse against the maid.”
It took Catherine a few moments to realize that he meant her. She turned with mute appeal to Dagonet, but he was not looking at her. This is what came of traveling with a gentleman unchaperoned. The highwaymen took her for a loose woman, rather than a lady. Well, Dagonet would set them straight!
Yet he replied in cheerful tones. “Done, sir! Two shots each at the highest leaf on that holly bush over there by the milestone. If your shot is better than mine, the gold and the lady are both yours.”
“It’s too far,” the second highwayman remonstrated. “Can’t be done!”
“And he can’t do it either. The prize will be ours, never fear,” the leader said. “Take your shot, Jim!”
The moonlight shone brightly over the scene. The holly twig was quite clear against the sky. Caught up now in the game, the highwaymen lined themselves up so that Dagonet would have no advantage of position and in turn took two shots each at the target. The man called Jim tried first. His shots both went well clear of the bush. The third accomplice had no better luck. In fact his second shot fell short of the tree altogether.
“You’re more wind than threat, sirs,” Dagonet stated as casually as if he made conversation over tea. “If you can shoot no better than this, you will have to turn into honest men.”
The leader laughed aloud. “My turn now, sir! I hope you’re not too fond of your little doxy, but she’ll have a good life with Merry Joe.”
So saying he turned and took careful aim at the innocent bush. The first shot grazed through the top leaves and sent a rattle of berries to the ground.
“Well done, sir,” Dagonet said. “But not good enough yet! I’m tired of her anyway, she’s a foul temper and a more doleful tongue than Cassandra. You’ll find her a sorry burden, sir.”
“But a welcome armful, no doubt, on a cold night!” Joe returned as he took aim again.
Catherine watched with her heart in her mouth. If this shot was successful, would Dagonet actually give her up to these men? She would rather die. It seemed that minutes went by as the highwayman sighted along the barrel of his pistol. There was a flash and a roar, and more leaves spun up into the night sky. It was, however, no better than the first attempt and with a curse the highwayman spat into the road.
“I’m damned if it can be done, sir. Do better than that or the purse and the lady are mine.”
“You’re an admirable shot, my friend.” Dagonet laughed. “Perhaps I should concede defeat?”
Catherine sat beside him in an absolute fury. How dare Dagonet so casually wager her honor with these ruffians! What did their purses matter? She remained in a rigid silence as Dagonet slipped out his pistol and took aim. The shot exploded past her ear. The very top leaf snapped off the holly bush and spun into the air.
Before the highwaymen could register that they had lost the wager, Dagonet had pulled out another pistol and trained its barrel on the three horsemen, conveniently grouped together.
“My win, sirs,” he said, entirely without emotion. “And now, since you have so very kindly emptied your pistols of both bullets, and since I have another in this chamber and two more in its companion, which makes one dose of lead for each of you, you will dismount without any suspicious moves and take the bridles off your horses.”
Dumbfounded, the ruffians could only do as he directed. Moments later, their bridle-less mounts went galloping away. Dagonet then required Merry Joe and his companions to remove their boots, which he collected and deposited in the phaeton.
“Now, good evening to you, gentlemen!”
The highwaymen were each given a stylish bow before Dagonet whipped up the team and they cantered off. The men were left cursing and shaking their fists in the frosty air, while their boots were tossed from the carriage along the roadside, where it would take the ruffians several hours to find them.
As soon as they were well away, Catherine turned to Dagonet. “How dared you, sir! What would you have done had that Merry Joe turned out to be a better shot? How could you to offer to leave me with them!”
“He did not turn out to be a better shot, dear Kate. Your question is entirely hypothetical.”
“This is insufferable, sir! You could not have known that. What would you have done? Handed me over to them in an attempt to save your precious purse?”
“You seem to forget, madam, that you were entered into the wager at the highwayman’s suggestion, not mine. But you did not need to be alarmed. You were never in any danger.”
“Your arrogance passes belief. Had you lost, you would have been honor bound to leave me with them. It was an unconscionable risk. But then perhaps your sense of honor is not so fine-tuned and you would have gone back on your word without a thought. Either way the situation was untenable.”
“My word is, you must believe, of course, always open to negotiation. Only a gentleman considers his word inviolable.” The reply was flung at her like a knife. “You forget, Miss Hunter, that I am not a gentleman but a rake. My reputation precedes me wherever I go. I am surprised you are not cognizant of it. In any event, I was lucky in my shot, so whether I would have preferred to leave you to Merry Joe or break my questionable word as a gentleman, we shall never know.”
“Any normal sane person would have thrown over their purse, rather than risk a bullet,” Catherine insisted.
“Undoubtedly. But then any normal sane person has credit. I have none. If we are to complete this journey, my gold had better stay in my possession.”
With that she was silenced once again. She would never understand him.
By the time they made the last change of horses at Newbury, Catherine was almost sleepwalking. There was no way she could rest in the open carriage, no cushioned headrest that would allow her to relax for a moment. Hour after hour, they had galloped on through the dark. Only the thought of little Annie lying helpless in the Rose and Crown at Marlborough gave her the determination to climb back into the phaeton one last time.
Dagonet had done everything possible to see to her comfort. Every posting inn had been ready with a hot drink and a fire, each time a new brick was placed in the carriage, but nowhere had they stopped for more than a few moments. The little tiger on the gray Thoroughbred had prepared the way for them with expertise, and there had been no delay in getting fresh horses. It reminded her of a military campaign, but then, of course, Dagonet had been a soldier.
Had there really been any danger that he couldn’t shoot the leaf from a holly bush, when he himself had picked the target? How many numbing hours of practice had it taken to be so sure of his aim? In any event, the ruse of the wager had effectively disarmed three men, and left him with three bullets. If his word meant nothing to him, he could have escaped with his purse whether he had won the wager or not. Still, she shivered as she remembered the glint in Merry Joe’s eye. As she tried to step up into the phaeton, she stumbled from pure weariness. Dagonet caught her arm.
“An hour and a half, Miss Hunter. Can you do it?”
She nodded and, throwing up her chin, climbed aboard without assistance. She had no idea, when she awoke an hour later, how she had come to be asleep at all, let alone with her head on her companion’s lap. He had one arm around her, steadying her shoulders, and a fold of the fur cloak was cushioned under her hair against his thigh. The whip was set into its holder and he drove on with the reins in one hand. The other hand rested gently against her back.
I must sit up,
she told herself firmly.
This is outside the bounds of anything that is suitable.
Yet it felt so secure and safe to be cradled against that strong body. She was so warm under the leather wrap, arranged so that the wind should not disturb her. Without moving she watched the countryside pass by. Why did it all look so different? Suddenly she realized it was snowing.
“When did the snow start?” she asked sleepily.
“Just past Hungerford.”
At the sound of his voice, she realized quite how compromising her position must appear to him, and she sat up. He did not, however, remove his arm from her shoulders. They were passing through the open hills of the Marlborough downs. The valley of the River Kennet that the road had followed for most of the journey had dropped away to their right. Flurries of snow stung her face as she looked about. Steadily the landscape was disappearing under a white blanket.
“Go back to sleep, Kate,” Dagonet said. There was something in his voice that was indefinable. “I’ll wake you in time, before we enter the coach yard.”
“I cannot think it quite the thing that I should be supported by your arm, sir.”