Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Physical excellence does not of itself produce a good mind and character: on the other hand, excellence of mind and character will make the best of the physique it is given.

~ Plato

M ayfair, late July 1815

"Stand and deliver!"

"Stand and deliver?" Did anyone rob men at gunpoint on rural roads anymore? Intrigued, Myles Rutland, Duke of Beresford, regarded the man before him with a frown, disbelieving this odd tale of woe.

"That's what the blackguard said."

"If you were traveling in a mail coach, address your accusations to the Postmaster and High Constable." The last man guilty of highway robbery was hung in Hempstead in 1802, after a recognizable loose girth-strap and a chance encounter with a post-boy in the Marlborough Forest.

"I was traveling in a private coach, on your land, I might add, Your Grace."

"My land?" Devil take me! That was a horse of a different color. "Did you recognize this highwayman?"

"Highwayman?" His fanatical laughter filled the room, suggesting that the man might be unhinged. "I never said my attacker was a man."

Myles tensed. What else was the man implying—trolls? "Grimes, is it?"

"Lucas Grimes, Esquire, at your service, Your Grace."

"Did I, or did I not, distinctly hear you say that a blackguard on the London Road attacked you?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Then explain yourself," he said, beginning to lose patience. He was late to another one of Lady Jersey's soirees. Damn my eyes!

"Forgive me, Your Grace. What you ask is not a simple thing for a man to confess." Grimes inspected his shabby appearance, frowning, then made a show of straightening his cuffs. "If I had been to a tavern, deep into my cups, perhaps I would call into question what my own eyes and ears saw and heard, but I did see her. A man does not expect to fall prey—"

"To confirm." He raised his hand to interrupt the man as it suddenly occurred to him that if Grimes wasn't accusing a man for the offenses against him, it could only mean— Peppered with confusion, he asked, "Are you implying that a woman robbed you at gunpoint?"

"Gunpoint?" The solicitor's eyes shot up. "I never mentioned such a weapon, though she wore a brace of very handsome pistols."

Absurd! He'd never heard of such a woman. "If she did not use her pistols, how on earth did she manage to frighten you into submission?"

"I never said I submitted."

Curse the man for talking in circles. "You said you were—" The man's incoherent mumbling finally cut through the last of Myles's patience. "I couldn't quite hear that."

"Your Grace." The man leaned forward, eyes widening. "She expertly wielded a bow and arrow."

First, a marauding woman, now this? Were his ears deceiving him? Preposterous! He sat back, almost too stunned to speak. But, of course, the truth was obvious to him now. Darkness of night, urgency of sound, danger, and fear. Circumstances like these influenced people to believe the oddest things. "This is not the Middle Ages, Mr. Grimes."

"Do you doubt my word, Your Grace? In case you have not heard, solicitors take particular care to avoid mincing words."

Myles leaned forward, feeling a novel tug at the man's entreaty. "A woman, you say? Expertly wielding a bow and arrow?"

Grimes nodded, albeit slowly, making him wonder if the man was providing the entire truth. Perhaps he had invented the tale to offset any embarrassment for the damage to his articles .

"And you expect that to counter my disbelief?"

"Your Grace, I assure you, I am not playing you false." Grimes waved his arms, the awkward motion hinting at barely held composure. "I have journeyed far to plead my case, have I not? And at great expense to myself."

Grimes had a point, though he hadn't quite got to it yet. "Perhaps you experienced a trick of moonlight—"

"Do not let these spectacles deceive you, Your Grace. I see everything clearly."

"And no one came to your defense? Your driver? Postillion? Without witnesses to verify—"

"They abandoned me to my fate. You have my word as a gentleman!"

"Be that as it may, the law requires proof. If events happened as you described and a highwaywoman robbed you but you suffered no—"

"Harm?" The man lunged forward, disturbing several objects on the desk between them, his zeal to be believed testing the last constraints of Myles's patience.

He glared at Grimes, but allowed the man his say.

"I am familiar with the rumble and harry of the opposite sex and can tell a woman from a man without the help of a full moon. You must allow me to clarify the damage done to my pride. For it is great, I assure you."

"Go on."

Grimes grimaced. "It is imperative for you to know that I have never met a more cunning, cold, and convincing individual. Indeed, I shall go to my grave with her image branded into the depths of my soul." He lifted his hands from the desk and straightened to his full height, which, for a portly man, provided little more elevation. "Heed my warning. We must hunt down, capture, and punish this woman. She is a pillory for anyone traveling on the London Road through Kingston-upon-Thames."

"You weave a fascinating tale. And while I understand your frustration and agree that something must be done to ease your discomfort, we need evidence according to the law. Unless someone catches them in the act, the process becomes daunting. The authorities have brought no one to trial for highway robbery in Kingston for twenty years."

Jerry Abershawe's hanging aptly put a stop to that.

"My testimony alone should be enough. But if it is proof you desire, I will gladly supply it." The man began awkwardly fumbling with the fall front of his trousers.

"Grimes!" Myles bolted from his chair. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Evidence, Your Grace. You asked for it, and I shall give it to you." With that, he dropped his trousers, turned, and raised his shirttail. The shocking act revealed a three-inch wound. " Here is your proof."

"She shot you . . . in the arse?" Myles quickly put the stopper on his laughter. An injury like that required aim and purpose, an improbable feat at night, making him marvel at this bandit's crudeness. Grimes had mentioned the woman was cunning. The whole affair seemed too farfetched to be believed.

To witness such a woman loose an arrow like Picts of old—

Sobering quickly, another thought struck him. "If you were in your carriage, how did you receive such a blow? And why would this she-bandit treat you so ill?"

The man clothed himself, his hands fumbling clumsily as he worked. "She demanded that I exit my carriage."

"And?" Being an excellent judge of character, he guessed the outcome.

"And . . . when I refused, out of an obligation to protect my client's goods, she shot an arrow between my legs. Entirely too close to my . . . Well, you get the idea."

Myles blinked. "While you were seated in the carriage?"

"Yes, Your Grace. It all happened so fast, I had no time to react. I confess, my life passed before my eyes, including—but not limited to—the children I might not produce."

Confounding. "What did you do next?"

"What else could I do?" Grimes harrumphed. "I carefully extracted myself from the carriage and decided to—"

"Run." The scene became clear now. This time, he didn't fight the laughter bubbling up in his chest, furthering Grimes' humiliation. Sitting down, he tented his fingers beneath his nose, struggling for composure.

"Yes." Grimes spat. "I admit it, I ran. It seemed the only solution at the time. She was on horseback. I was on foot, the woods dark and thick. I misjudged her. Everything happened so fast. I—"

"Why not just give her what she asked for?" Myles lowered his hands, his mind reaching for something he could not quite grasp. The highwaywoman's cold-blooded determination drew him in, making him wonder what would drive a female to break the law. "What were her demands? Be specific. Any information you provide will be crucial to your case."

The man smiled for the first time since entering Myles's office. "You will investigate the incident then?"

"Since this incident took place on my land, I suppose it is my duty to look into it."

Though it was little consolation that he'd spent insufficient enough time in Surrey before and after his father's death, news of this hoyden's activities motivated him. Yes. If Grimes was telling the truth—and thus far, Myles had little reason to suspect otherwise—returning to Kingston would provide a diversion from seeds of division, military aggression, and debates of treaties and declarations. The trip might also provide an opportunity to become reacquainted with Lady Lora Putney. To his knowledge, she hadn't been to London since her first season. Perhaps it was time to discover why. Lord knew he needed a distraction from matchmaking mamas eager to attach their daughters to an eligible duke.

As the current Duke of Beresford, he'd quashed demons of loss and suffocating regret to support the Crown. He'd devoted himself to the House of Lords, where they debated alternatives to the long series of years that were destroying the United Kingdom's hopes of tranquility. In particular, he'd winnowed through unfounded opinions, groundless prejudices, and erroneous information, while Wellington had trounced Bonaparte, a man who supported neither peace nor truce, on the 18 th of June. And yet, discord continued. Lord Grey and Robert Wilson misreported a French victory to a packed house at Brook's, and Samuel Whitbread, a great admirer of Napoleon, upon learning the truth, committed suicide. As a consequence, the triumph many declared a ‘ray of sunshine' could not last.

In Earl Bathurst's words: ‘If a government exercised its functions in a manner which was dangerous to its neighbors, those neighbors had a right to proscribe that government, if necessary.'

Is that what Kingston needed?

What about the widows and orphans Waterloo had created? Thousands of veterans were returning to the kingdom—discharged soldiers, sailors on half-pay, and the wounded. Who would defend them? He'd neglected the market town for far too long. And what would returning cost him? He despised the city. Thieves multiplied on market streets and the wrong lot took in urchins, forcing them to survive by vim and vigor. Many were blameless because they lived in a constant, brutal hell. Now more were set to join them, driven by economic hardship.

Could Grimes's attacker simply be a city woman who'd ventured to the country for easy pickings? Perhaps a tavern wench or widow in dire straits. But where would such a female acquire the skills necessary to humiliate a solicitor on his way to a client? And, why?

"Who did you say your client was again?" he asked Grimes, who stood awkwardly before him.

"I didn't say, Your Grace. That is . . . confidential."

Myles had had enough of secrecy. "Not if it pertains to your case."

"It does." The man grumbled. "I was on my way to see the Honorable Thomas Hawkesbury with several of the barrister's files."

"The Marquess of Putney's younger brother?" He hadn't interacted with the man in years. That was not an oversight on his part.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And do the papers in your possession concern him?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Grimes cleared his throat and handed him a leatherbound satchel. "That is to say, matters pertaining to his brother's accident, the death of the marquess's son, and questions about the line of succession."

"The laws of succession are inflexible." Myles tapped the haversack, intrigued. "I recall both of these events with equal sadness."

His father had attended the funeral. But he hadn't been able to pay his respects after the young earl's death because of political debate.

He opened the pouch and perused the contents, frowning. There were ledgers listing debts paid by Thomas Hawkesbury for his son. Reckless vowels to friends, promising payment. A letter threatening the son to take the ‘King's Shilling' if he did not accept a commission and discharge papers from the 33 rd Regiment of Foot. Being forced to enlist is a dire fate for an aristocrat. What's more, there were promissory notes to moneylenders, and peculiar gambling losses at Tattersalls, Ascot, and Epsom, Gentlemen clubs and gaming hells. He furrowed his brows. "Is anything missing?"

"No, Your Grace. That is what confounds me."

"She took nothing?" Odd. He shook his head, baffled, then returned the solicitor's belongings. Life produced forces for good and evil. Zara's line in The Mourning Bride, often wrongly credited to Shakespeare, struck him. ‘Heav'n has no rage, like love to hatred turn'd, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.' "She made no other demands?"

Grimes narrowed his stare. "As I lay there bleeding, she said, ‘I asked you to leave the carriage. That was all you had to do. Only the guilty run.' She stared down at me. ‘I will not miss next time.'"

"Miss?"

"My response exactly. To prove her point, she quickly shot the hat off my head." He retrieved his headgear, a felt stovepipe hat, and stuck his fingers through the hole in the six-and-a-half-inch crown.

Myles's jaw dropped as the hole appeared to be angled dangerously close to a man's skull. "What happened next?"

Grimes tucked his folio under his arm. "She retrieved her arrow."

"From your hat?"

"Not that one."

He leaned forward in his chair, aghast. "Do you mean to say that she—"

"No. No. No, Your Grace." The solicitor shook his head gravely. "The shaft grazed my arse . . . then fortuitously buried itself into a tree stump. The threat to my person was real, however. I had the distinct impression she regretted not shooting me through."

"I see."

"Good." Grimes bowed. "I presented my case, and now that I have received assurances you will look into the matter, I shall not take up any more of your time."

"What were her conditions?" Myles blurted out, stopping the man from leaving as he gathered his belongings and headed for the door.

"Your Grace?" Grimes asked, perplexed.

"Her demands, man. What were they?"

He reluctantly returned to Myles's desk. "If her goal was to humiliate me, she triumphed."

"But she gave no further orders?" he asked, trying to mask his shock. "No reason why she detained you?"

Color flooded Grimes's cheeks, a mix of displeasure and discomfort. "She conveyed a message, Your Grace."

"Intended for whom?" His impatience was at an end.

"Hawkesbury, of course," Grimes said as if Myles couldn't keep up.

At last. "Go on."

"Revenge is best served sweet."