Authors: Kate Noble
Jane’s eyebrow perked up. “Which are?”
“Research,” Byrne replied. “Not action. Anything that said woman wants to or thinks she can find out through conversation with townsfolk, I am more than willing to accept her help. The moment she decides to take a rented carriage up and down the Windermere road late at night in the hopes of being robbed, any partnership would be dissolved.”
“What kind of idiot would do such a—” but Jane stopped when she saw the serious expression on Byrne’s face. “Those terms are acceptable.” But he held his face in the same still, unsmiling manner, still bored his eyes into hers, until she could do nothing but laugh. “I have no intention of endangering myself. But I can talk sweet to Sir Wilton and find out what specifically was stolen.” She smiled at him. “You can’t believe what’s been said in the village—according to them, everything from family pets to the crown jewels was taken.”
“All right,” Byrne conceded. “And once we have that information, I’ll ride down to Manchester, see if things have been sold down there.”
“Yes, but why wait that long to take any action?” Jane asked and was rewarded with a curious glance. “In the meantime, you should go into Reston and introduce yourself to the villagers.”
“What kind of idiot would do such a—” he started to say, but he clammed up when he saw the expression on Jane’s face. The one that matched his from mere moments ago.
“How are you to identify someone if you don’t know what they look like—or stand like, or speak like? And,” she added, before he could comment, “even if you catch the highwayman, you still need to undo your first, disastrous impression with the townspeople.”
He scoffed. Harrumphed, even. “I don’t see the advantage to walking around town tipping my hat to ladies who won’t respond. I’ve tried that.”
Jane sighed. “At the very least, you should come to the public dance next week. They can’t keep you out.”
“Neither can I dance,” he held up his cane.
“No, but you can converse, and that will go a long way.” The wind whipped a stray tendril of hair across her eyes and mouth, getting trapped in her lips. Before her hand could wipe the wisp back into order, Byrne’s hand was there, placing it where it belonged.
Electricity coursed through her body at his touch. But she held still as he wound the tendril back around her ear.
And then, just as suddenly as his fingers had moved, caressed—they stopped. Dropped to his side, finished. As if they had never erred from the proper in the first place.
Jane kept her breath steady and looked at the watch chained to her shirtwaist. Time was slipping past. “I’m sorry, I must go—” she began regretfully, but he held up his hand.
“Your time is not your own. I’m impressed you managed to find an hour to spare.”
An hour stolen, Jane thought. But she would not give it back. He held out his hand to her, and this time she took it willingly, took its warmth and strength, and let him escort her back down the fell, back to the lake.
Back to her life.
The dream began the same.
He could feel the blistering pain rip across his flesh, resting there, incubating in his blood. The fire surrounded him, the orange heat and smoke clouding his vision, the weakened floor beneath his feet bowing, creaking under his loping weight. The dead man’s body rested on the floor beside him, chewed up in seconds by the fire. Consumed, gone. Lost to memory and forever banished. But still the fire enveloped him.
He could move. The cane that bore the impression of his grip no longer filled his hands—there was instead, an intricately carved silver pistol. It was leveled at the spot where the body had fallen and disappeared into smoke and ash.
He had to get out. He went to the door—met heat and blaze. Went to the window, and stared down into a bottomless pit on the outside. No way out.
He felt the panic set in, felt the hopelessness of his situation. There was no escape. Better to sit. To let the heat and fire take him and . . .
And he heard a voice.
A throaty, rich alto; a laugh that filled his senses like cinnamon. He caught a scent on the air . . . honeysuckle. He turned and saw the fire reflected in a pair of eyes so dark, they melted into obsidian.
“Come with me,” she said, the fire warming her lightly freckled skin but not touching her. Not consuming her, the way it consumed him. She held out her hand, pulled him to her, and took his fever inside herself, laying her mouth on his and breathing in life.
And suddenly, they were outside, they were safe, and all that blazed was the sight of her pale skin in the starlight, and he could feel grass beneath his naked feet, beneath his knees as he pulled her gently down with him. Under her back where the dew made her skin slick and fine. The cool night air enveloped them as heat possessed him anew, and he took a breath and laid his lips to her throat and devoured, a trail of fire lit from him across her body, down, down, gloriously down, until—
Byrne awoke suddenly, breathing hard. He was still in his bed, still in his little house on the perpetually cheerful lake. It was pitch-dark, no moon to lend him light, the only sounds crickets, harmonized by the house’s creaking.
Normally the dream had him awake with terror, but not this time. No, the dream had morphed, changed, become something new and intriguing. Jane had infiltrated, her cinnamon scent stale in the air, like leftover spiced tea. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. She had wormed her way into his daytime thoughts; his unconscious was simply catching up. Maybe if he were to try to coax himself back to sleep, he could continue with it, pick up at the heavenly spot where he left off.
But his entire body was awake, on fire, bursting with need. His muscles taut, his cock hard, and for the first time in ages, his leg, whose wound endured a perpetual dull throb on good days, felt like it could run from here to town and back. There would be no more sleep tonight; that he knew. Damn it all.
He stood up from the bed and grabbed his cane. He walked out into the dark world stark naked and plunged himself into the lake. Its cool comfort was a sad replacement for cinnamon and fire.
IT was an unequivocal truth of Jane’s life that the minute she needed to find something, it would find itself hopelessly lost. Jane, being uncommonly organized, decided to blame this particular failing on variables outside of her control, such as the people she happened to be living with.
“Jason, where on earth did you put my pale blue gloves?” Jane said as she barged into the Cottage’s library. Jason had been holed up here for days, crossing paths with Jane and their father only over mealtimes and then retreating back to the library. Likely he was concocting some paper for the Historical Society and would ride off to present it as soon as possible, but at least he was still here now, Jane thought. And considering his hibernation-like tendencies, Jane had to admit it was unlikely he had done anything with her gloves, but he was the last person left to ask and therefore the most likely suspect.
“I left them on the settee in the drawing room. Did you move them?” she asked, not breaking her stride as she moved about the room, looking over and under various stacks.
“Why on earth would I move your gloves? You’re always losing things,” Jason grumbled, not looking up from his writing.
“I am not, and take that back,” Jane replied, affronted.
“Go without,” Jason shrugged, “far too hot for gloves, in any case.”
She huffed in disbelief. “I cannot go into town without gloves, and the pale blue are the only ones that match this ensemble.” Not wholly true—a pair of white gloves would work just as well . . . but when else could a girl be so particular but with her wardrobe? She moved to his desk and began rifling through the papers there.
“I say! Can you . . . not disturb what I’m doing?” Jason asked, grabbing at the piece of correspondence Jane had just picked up, which she held conveniently out of his long reach.
“Whom are you corresponding with? More love letters?” Jane held the paper just out of his grasp, as Jason futilely swiped for it. “I hear Penelope Wilton is back in town.”
Jason suddenly froze. “Penelope Wilton?” he asked, slowly lowering his arm.
“Hmm.” Jane replied as she perused the letter in her hand. “Well, Penelope Brandon now, of course.” A small frown marred her brow. “Why are you writing to Crow Castle’s steward?”
Jason sighed. “Because I cannot make heads or tails of these account books.” He pointed to the desk, where lay stacked a pile of ledgers and papers a foot high. “Nor can I with the account books for the estates in Surrey, Brighton, and the house in London. I was always hopeless with numbers.”
Jane ran her hand over the account books, their leather bindings smartly cracked, their pages well thumbed. She checked Jason’s fingers—they were indeed stained with ink. He had been working on these for a while.
“You have gone over the accounts?”
Jason looked at her askance. “Of course I have. Father hasn’t cracked a book in more than a year, and the stewards have been sending reports every quarter that haven’t been taken into the account books . . . what do you think I’ve been doing in here for the past week?”
Jane shrugged sheepishly. “Paper on the architecture of the northern pub?”
But Jason just snatched the letter back from Jane and set about folding and sealing it. “Anyway, I’ve asked Crow Castle’s steward to clarify some of the questions I had about the accounts.”
Jane couldn’t help it. She felt the well of a tear come to her eye as she smiled down at her brother.
Jason rolled his eyes at his sister. “Oh for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that.”
“I am sorry,” she sniffled, “I’m just so pleased.”
“If you’re going to get all weepy, go do it elsewhere, would you—you’re getting water stains all over the columns.” Jason stood and straightened his coat, ran a hand through his shock of hair.
“I have an idea,” she said brightly. “Why not invite the stewards of Crow Castle and the London properties to come up and teach you about their accounting methods?” She looked hopefully at her brother, who seemed to mull over the notion, but then he ultimately rejected it with a shrug.
“Probably unnecessary,” Jason grunted.
“You’re quite right,” Jane replied, even as she made up her mind to the contrary. “I am going into town. I can post your letter for you.”
“Actually”—Jason blushed—“I thought I might go with you . . . maybe make calls with you as well.”
“Really?” Jane asked archly. “Any call in particular? Penelope Wilton, perhaps?”
“Penelope Brandon, now,” Jason replied but still pulled on his cuffs nervously. He shot Jane a too-charming smile as he placed the steward’s letter in her hand. “I will let you pay for the post on this, though. Much obliged.”
As Jason veritably strutted to the library door, Jane was bemused enough to smile. That is, of course, until she saw a hint of pale blue kid sticking out from underneath the foot-high pile of account books.
“You did have my gloves! I knew it!”
It was one thing to try to flatter Sir Wilton into divulging the details of the highwayman robberies, Jane thought as she slumped ever so slightly back against the Wiltons’ brocade sofa. It was quite another to do so while watching Victoria Wilton make a cake of herself over Jason.
They were all gathered in the Wiltons’ westernmost parlor, which stayed cool until the hot afternoon hours beat the sun into the windows. Jane, Jason, Penelope, Victoria, and Sir Wilton, with the two young boys, Joshua and Michael, running in and out at their leisure, Penelope’s babes being taken into town. Lady Wilton was out with the housekeeper, purchasing that week’s meals, and felt the need to show off her granddaughters to everyone from the butcher to the blacksmith to the rector. If Jane and Jason did not have the wherewithal to leave before that good lady came back, she was certain they would be prevailed upon to stay for luncheon, which must be avoided at all costs. Not only would it disturb their father’s schedule to not have his daughter present at the meal, but Lady Wilton had a penchant for hardy fare, which made her daughters’ slim figures all the more admirable—they must have stayed that way through sheer force of will.
So there they were, Jane, Jason, Penelope, Victoria, and Sir Wilton, all seated in a pleasant circle, all politely saying “No thank you” as the Wiltons’ young maid brought in a tea tray, and Victoria valiantly tried to ply the assembled party. Conversation tended to flow something like this:
Jane would say, “Sir Wilton, Reston seems to have flourished in the time we’ve been away. Surely, as one of the leading men in the county, you’ve had a hand in that.”
Sir Wilton’s face would become mottled with color as his chest puffed out, straining the brass buttons of his waistcoat. “Oh, yes indeed, we’ve flourished,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Tourists have begun to take note of us as more quaint than Ambleside. I’d rather they’d have kept their rabble—why it’s practically a metropolis now; they laid cobblestones down their high street, can you imagine? Reston’s earthen streets are far more friendly to the local livestock—and if the Morgans ever allow for the construction of that cow path—”
And then, from Jane’s other side, Jason would feel the need to interject his opinion. “Actually, Sir Wilton, cobblestones add a level of authenticity to a town’s history, I’ve always found. Indeed, when my friends and I were in Copenhagen, we found townsfolk who told us that their great-great-grandfathers laid the stones.”
To which Victoria, her hands full of tea tray and her eyes full of wistful admiration, said, “Oh, my lord, that sounds fascinating. To be walking on history!”
At which Penelope would cry, “Oh leave off, my lord—did they also tell you that for a very nominal fee, they would pry up a cobble-stone for you to take home with you?”
Jason barked with laughter. “You mean like that old peddler—”
“Who tried to sell us tickets to the traveling circus!” Penelope answered.
“That had traveled through the week before!” Jason finished, and the two would dissolve into giggles like the youths they were remembering themselves to be.
The dejected expression evident on Victoria’s face pulled at Jane’s heartstrings. Or it would have, if she had heartstrings.
Oh, that is not true, Jane thought. Of course she had heartstrings. And Victoria’s predicament was just the kind of thing to tug them on an average day. But today Jane was on a mission. And so, after about three or so circuitous conversational loops, all ending in Jason and Penelope laughing over some adolescent memory, Jane decided enough was enough.
“Goodness! Sir Wilton, with the development of the area beyond the rural, I imagine that an unsavory element has come creeping in?” Jane asked, trying to turn the conversation back to what was important.
“Of course! Goodness, child, didn’t you hear me about the cobblestones?” Sir Wilton replied.
“I think, Father,” Victoria piped up, “that Lady Jane is referring to the highwayman.”
Jane caught Victoria’s eye, saw that young lady’s conspiratorial intention, and immediately resolved to act on her heartstrings the next time they tugged.
“The highwayman! He’s been a complete nuisance!” Sir Wilton cried, his face turning russet, as Penelope nodded.
“We’ve heard tale of him as far away as Manchester.”
“Have you?” Jason asked, his attention undivided from anything Penelope said.
“Oh yes! They say he has plagued the Lake District. He strikes day and night—and he’s taken horses, monies—half the jewels in England!”
“If he’s taken half the jewels in England, I am surprised that Manchester is the farthest his story has reached,” Jane said, doing the best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She saw Penelope’s mouth pinch a little at the comment, but Jane turned her attention to Sir Wilton before she could react further. “Surely you can tell us what was taken, in truth.”
“Well, er, yes,” the older man prevaricated. “But why do you wish to know?”
“Perhaps if we knew the extent of the highwayman’s deeds, we would not be so quick to put his actions to legend.”
Sir Wilton seemed to consider that notion, glancing back at his book room across the hall from the sitting room.
“Besides, sir,” Jane pressed, “if the man is able to be so successful, partially on his reputation, if that reputation were not earned, perhaps ...”
But she was not allowed to continue with the thought. At that moment, Lady Wilton and Minnie the housekeeper burst through the door, Minnie laden with bags from the butcher and the grocer, Lady Wilton laden with news.
“Well, I have just seen what I never expected to see in my many days!” Lady Wilton cried as she entered, fanning herself vigorously, the heat of the day less the concern than the affectation of the overwrought.
“My lord,” Lady Wilton curtsied to greet Jason, somewhat stiffly, her eyes shifting to Penelope. But if Penelope was willing to accept Jason’s friendship with ease, her mother would have to as well.
“Mama, where are the girls?” Penelope asked, standing to greet her mother.
“Bridget has them, darling,” Lady Wilton replied as she removed her bonnet.
Bridget being the nursemaid, Jane surmised, knowing full well that Lady Wilton would have gone out in the village showing off her grandchildren with only the fullest complement of servants she could manage.
“The lazy girl fell behind—I simply had to rush back here and tell you all the news!” Lady Wilton exclaimed. Once she had everyone’s eyes, she intoned dramatically, “Mr. Worth was in the village.”
Met by blank stares from many, only Victoria and Sir Wilton gave the response that was desired. A gasp of shock and a “Goodness!” fell from her daughter’s lips.
“Walking up the high street! He even tipped his hat to me! Well, I never!”
Jane gave a secret smile, while Penelope questioned her mother. “I don’t understand, Mama. What is the significance of a tip of the hat?”
This comment launched Lady Wilton into a sputtering recounting of her opinions about Mr. Worth, which Jane sat through patiently.
“I will say,” Jason added once Lady Wilton had taken a crumpet, which stopped her speaking, “that my interactions with the man have been less than friendly.”
Jane shot her brother a dark look, from which he looked sheepishly away. “Well, it was,” he grumbled under his breath. Jane would have kicked his ankle if it could have gone unnoticed.
“If he is such a bad character, why haven’t you run him out of town, Papa?” Penelope asked.
Sir Wilton turned, if possible, a more ruddy shade of red, as his eyes narrowed angrily. “Well, we will—once, that is, we have evidence enough to catch the slippery—”
But he was not fated to continue on his rambling, because at that moment, a heartfelt shriek emanated from the kitchens.
“Milady!” Minnie cried as she ran into the sitting room. “The boys have gone mad, they have!”
“What have they done now?” Sir Wilton grumbled, while Lady Wilton took on an expression of abject horror.
“Gracious! What trouble are those poor boys being led into now? The Morgans’ daughter has been a terrible influence on Michael and Joshua, my lord,” she said by way of explanation to Jason.
“They’ve felled a sapling and are riding it down the river!” Minnie cried, and rushed back to the kitchen, no doubt to view the melee from her window there.