Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

J acob left the party through a side door and eyed a servant shirking his duties outside.

Was he a servant? He wasn't dressed in the Simmons' livery. Jacob looked again, but the man rounded the corner of the house toward the gardens. Jacob moved to chase him but paused. Truly, he had no time. He needed to get into position.

He skirted the perimeter to the tree where he'd hidden his driving coat, which remained hung on the tree limb where he'd left it. He donned it, strode to the Dorshams' carriage, and climbed into his driving seat.

"There you are." A footman rounded the back of the conveyance. "I've been searching for you. Lord and Lady Dorsham are ready to depart. Snap to it and be quick about it. I've got other coachmen waiting in line."

Jacob plopped on his hat and snapped the reins. He drove the team to a stop beside the Simmons' mounting block near the front entrance, where Lord and Lady Dorsham waited with their daughter.

"…lovely party," Lady Dorsham said. "I'm only disappointed Lord Warren didn't ask you to dance." She harrumphed as if Miss Dorsham were to blame. "At least you two took a turn about the room."

Jacob sank into his driving coat and tipped his hat lower.

The Dorshams climbed into the coach, and Jacob turned the team and headed down the lane toward home. Moonlight filtered through the clouds, casting shadows along the dirt road. If he'd been correct and one of the highwaymen mingled among high society, then the chance of the Dorsham carriage being raided tonight was great, thanks to the brilliant display of jewels strewn across Miss Dorsham's neck.

The raspy barking of foxes died as the carriage rumbled past the heath, and a screech owl cried its warning.

Jacob released one hand from the reins to check for the blunderbuss he'd tucked under the driver's seat earlier. The weight of the pistols he'd hidden in his driving coat and his jacket's inside pocket reassured him of their presence.

He strained to hear any sound above the pounding of the horses' hooves and the crunching of the wheels. Despite the cool night air, perspiration beaded on his forehead as they approached the canopy of trees. He'd forgotten how dark this section of the road was at night—the perfect cover for someone seeking to accost a passing coach. Scar's men were posted along the road in Bibury, but it was a good distance away. The damp forest air hung with the smell of earth and moss. His palms tingled, and his grip tightened on the reins. He nudged the team faster.

The break in the forest beckoned in the distance, but so did a sharp turn where he'd have no choice but to slow the horses. If they made it past the turn, he and the Dorshams might return home tonight without any scuffle. He wanted to crack this case, but he also desired to return the Dorshams home safely and for him to have a chance to see his son again. His career had aided him in locating his son, but now that he'd found Christian, he should give up his position. He shouldn't risk his life or his future as Christian's father. Provided he stayed alive, the funds he'd earned would allow Christian to attend Eton.

Two shadows emerged from the trees.

He'd been right, but it offered little solace as cold tingles spread to his toes. He tensed for a fight.

The single riders could outpace the cumbersome coach and doubtless had chosen this spot because driving the team through the sharp turn forced the driver to keep both hands on the reins.

One rider passed him, and Jacob strained in the dark for a good look, but all he could discern was that the man was small, like a lad.

The second rider approached from behind, most likely with a gun pointed at Jacob's head.

Jacob fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. Best to let them think they held the element of surprise.

The small rider turned his mount, nudging the team off the road.

The horses balked, trapped between the single rider and the tree line.

Jacob struggled to keep them from rearing.

"Halt." The click of a gun's hammer pulled back froze Jacob. He slowly shifted in his seat to peer down the barrel of the taller highwayman's pistol.

The man nodded to his accomplice, and after the lad stopped the team, the smaller man pointed his weapon at Jacob's head.

The larger rogue dismounted and pounded on the carriage window. "Stand and deliver your purse and jewels."

Jacob scanned for additional thieves hiding among the trees, but it seemed there were only the two riders.

The taller highwayman ripped open the carriage door.

Miss Dorsham screamed.

"Now, see here..." Lord Dorsham's voice rang out.

The highwayman stuck his blunderbuss and his open palm into the conveyance. "Give it over quick, and no one will get hurt. More men await my signal. They'll come if you give me trouble."

Were there footpads waiting in the woods? If so, he and Scar would be at a grave disadvantage. It had to be a Canterbury tale. Jacob saw no sign of other robbers. Definitely not other horses.

Miss Dorsham's soft crying followed the clink of jewels and money purses being handed over.

Jacob glanced back at the carriage, nervous for the Dorshams. He reached for his weapon. Timing was everything. If the taller rogue lowered his gun?—

"Get your hands where I can see them."

Jacob jerked back to face the smaller thief and raised both hands in the air. His gaze honed in on the slight figure. The blackguard disguised his voice, but he didn't sound like a lad.

The taller rogue stuffed a handful of jewels into his pocket and returned for more. "Give the rest over. Now!"

Miss Dorsham's wailing increased, and a coin purse and other loot jingled while being handed to their assailant.

The sound of an approaching rider had both rogues craning their necks. Was it Scar or one of their accomplices?

The taller kicked the carriage door shut.

Jacob sprang from his perch onto the smaller rider, reaching for the weapon. His forearm hit the thief's neck before the rest of his body knocked the bloke off his horse.

The bandit's foot caught in the stirrup, and he released a cry of pain as they swung through the air.

Jacob slammed into the ground. Pain shot across his shoulder and back. He wrestled for control of the gun, rolling to wrench the other man's leg, still stuck in the stirrup. Jacob yanked hard on the weapon, seizing it. He pointed the gun at the taller bandit.

The larger thief swung his weapon in Jacob's direction while the smaller reached to dislodge his foot with an angry groan.

"You fool! What have you done?" The tall brigand shook his weapon at Jacob, and his eyes grew wild in the dim light.

Leg free, the smaller bandit sat up.

The hoofbeats of the approaching horse grew louder.

Jacob winced at putting weight on his injured shoulder but rose, staying low.

"I'm going to kill you for hurting her."

Her ?

The small-framed person he'd wrestled hadn't been a boney, skinny boy.

A female highwayman was unheard of. He'd read Alexander Smith's accounts of England's infamous, wicked lady, Katherine Ferrers, and her robberies, but she'd lived over a hundred years before, and her story read more as myth than legend. A mask covered this robber's face, but the chin was pointy, and a long wisp of hair blew in the night breeze. Her bulky overcoat made it impossible to detect any feminine curves. Which would be the point.

She rose, staying close to her horse's side. The larger bandit stepped toward Jacob.

Jacob removed his other pistol from his coat pocket with his free hand and pointed it at the woman's head, standing between the two assailants.

She gasped, and the other bandit drew back.

"Drop your weapon!" a man yelled. It sounded like Lieutenant Scar. His handler barreled toward them, pistol extended and black cape whipping behind him.

Thank heaven .

Pain shot through Jacob's groin.

She'd kicked him.

He dropped to his knees and fought to keep his weapons pointed at the bandits. Through the pain blurring his vision, he saw the woman climb onto her horse.

A shot rang out, and the male thief stumbled.

The woman screamed, and her horse charged toward Jacob. He dove into the grass to avoid getting trampled, twisted, and raised his pistol. But didn't fire. He didn't have it in him to shoot a woman.

She clicked her heels and darted into the woods.

Her companion used the carriage as a shield, emerging on his horse, and chased her.

Jacob aimed and shot, but his target gave no indication he'd been hit.

The brigands drove their horses deeper into the woods.

"Are you hurt?" Lieutenant Scar reached him and slowed his horse.

"I'll live." Jacob rose onto one knee with a grimace. Whether he could walk yet—or sire another child—was still to be determined.

Scar reloaded his weapon and spurred his horse into the woods after the thieves.

Jacob would follow and provide backup, but he had no horse. Unless he unhooked one from the team and rode bareback, but that would take at least five minutes. By the time he caught up, the action would be long past. Assuming Scar even found them.

The carriage door cracked open, and Lord Dorsham peeked out.

"Get inside and stay until I say it's safe," Jacob yelled. No sense in blowing his cover.

Lord Dorsham recoiled, slamming the door.

The moonlight outlined a dark shape resting in the road. Jacob drew closer and picked up the hat the woman had worn. It must have been knocked off during the fall. He held it up to the carriage's lantern. It was an ordinary clericus hat with a low profile and slopped brim. Inside were three long strands of hair. He'd need better lighting to be certain, but they appeared blond against the black fabric.

Lady Benton had blond hair. For that matter, so did Sarah, Lady Copeland, Lady Simmons, the party's hostess, and countless other guests. Even Miss Dorsham had blond hair, though she could be ruled out, since she was in the carriage.

But now he knew one of the robbers was a blond woman. That narrowed the suspects. The woman had a slight build, around five-and-a-half-feet tall, and a male companion who appeared to be of a similar height and build to Jacob. He had a local accent.

Hoofbeats approached.

Jacob ducked behind the carriage and drew his weapon.

Lieutenant Scar reined his steed to a halt, and Jacob tucked his gun back in his pocket.

"They got away." He dismounted and faced Jacob. "They know these woods well."

Jacob nodded. "The man is local."

Scar's eyebrows rose. "The other was female? I thought it was a lad."

He held out the inside of the hat, pointing to the hairs. "A blond lady of the ton , I suspect."

"Interesting. Do we have our own Wicked Lady? They didn't take their lesson from Lady Katherine Ferrers's death?"

"Wasn't her highway-thieving mere hearsay?"

"Sometimes all a mimic needs is to believe in a legend."

Jacob tried to recall the gossip. According to legend, Lady Ferrers had been a wealthy orphaned heiress, forced to marry a sluggard who spent her family's fortune. She'd taken up thieving with her lover to keep the coffers filled but got shot and died inside her childhood home. Her bloodied male clothes had been stashed by a secret entrance.

Was their current female highway thief leg shackled to a sluggard? It didn't rule Lady Benton out.

"Have you questioned your charges?" He inclined his chin toward the coach.

Jacob shook his head.

"I'll handle it. You climb up and take a moment to remember the events."

He did what Scar requested.

Ten minutes later, Scar rode away and Jacob drove the Doshams back to their manor before wearily climbing on his horse and returning to Brownstone Hall.

Thank goodness Jacob hadn't brought Emily. She might have wanted to ride with Miss Dorsham. The fear she would have endured. He enjoyed the thrill and challenge of espionage, but he'd just found Christian and wanted to know his son—more than anything. After tonight, his decision was made. He'd resign from his position once the jewel thieves were caught.

Could he afford to leave the Home Office and still provide the lifestyle he desired for Christian? As much as he hated to admit it, Christian might be better off without him in his daily life, but Jacob couldn't bear seeing his son only on holiday or special occasions.

Had he been mistaken about Emily? He'd believed there was something between them, but she'd pushed him away at every opportunity, and now, he was fairly convinced she'd tried to coerce him into marriage with Miss Dorsham. Was she bent on ridding him from Christian's life? Perhaps she figured if she pawned some other man's child off as his, he'd forget about the son he'd searched five years to find.

Was Emily Thompson different or just like all the other women who'd betrayed him?

He rode through Brownstone Hall's iron gates, up the drive, and into the stable. He woke a sleepy groomsman to rub down his mount but stopped beside a horse still saddled in its stall that hadn't been cooled off and brushed. "What's this?"

The groom peered over the stall door. "I don't rightly know, milord." He lifted his hand and scratched his head. "I didn't saddle this one nor hear its return."

Jacob entered the stall, noticing the dirt and sweat covering the horse's coat and a dark stain near the saddle. He touched it and held the red sticky substance to the light.

Wooziness overwhelmed him.

Blood.

He stumbled against the stall and inhaled some deep breaths to fight the darkness trying to swallow him. Focus on the task at hand. A good spy can't faint at the sight of blood.

Could the highwayman Lieutenant Scar shot be living under Jacob's nose? Or was this a coincidence? He grabbed a lantern from off a wall hook and held it up, asking the groom to scan the dirt and hay for other blood splatters.

The groom pointed a few feet away. "Over here."

For the third time that day, Jacob removed his gun from his pocket. People, like wounded animals, lashed out when cornered.

The groom followed the splatters out of the barn and up the crushed-stone path. "It looks as though it leads to the steward's lodging."

Jacob moved in front of the groom. "Follow me but stay back a bit."

He led the way to his steward's house.

Blast.

The steward's door stood wide open, and a low moan resonated from inside.

"Welsh?" Jacob peeked through the window into the sparsely furnished room before crouching low and moving to the door, carefully checking his blind spots.

"Here." The raspy reply came from a shadowed corner.

Jacob found Welsh slumped in a chair. The scarf that had hidden his identity earlier hung around his neck. His pale face contrasted against the darkness, and his hand covered a wound in his stomach. The dim light hid the sight of blood, but Jacob's knees wobbled, anyway. He gripped the door frame and turned to the groom. "Take a horse and fetch the physician. Hurry!"

The groom's feet kicked up stones as he dashed back toward the stable.

Jacob removed his coat and held it out to block the sight of blood. If he didn't need to interrogate Welsh, he would have gone for the doctor and left the groom to care for the injured man. He forced his shaky legs to move to his steward's side and wadded his jacket over the wound, applying pressure with his hands.

A wheezing chuckle with a bit of spittle emitted from Welsh's mouth. "You should have sent him for the coroner."

"You've held on this long. You can hold on a bit longer." As Jacob knelt, the metallic scent of blood filled his nose. Queasiness washed over him, but the bleeding must have slowed because no liquid seeped through. The man had little time left. Jacob needed to get him to talk. "Why'd you do it? Why a life of stealing?"

Welsh's lips twisted in a wry smile. "You were right." He paused as though summoning the energy to continue. "Women are nothing but trouble."

"Who is she?"

Welsh's eyes closed, and Jacob patted his cheek to keep him awake.

"What's her name?"

"She used me. Took the jewels and left me to die like a dog." His voice cracked on a sob. "I love her. Did this for her."

"Who?"

He whispered something Jacob couldn't make out, and his eyes closed. Jacob smacked his face a bit harder and leaned in to hear.

"I'll see her again." On a long exhale of breath, Jacob thought he heard him say, in hades . Welsh's head lolled to the side.

"Stay with me. Help is on the way." He shook Welsh's shoulders, but the man didn't rouse again. He checked for a pulse in his neck.

Welsh was gone.

Jacob stood and ran a hand through his hair.

Thunder and turf. His own steward? To think he'd brought the hoodlum into his aunt's house. When she found out, he wouldn't be surprised if she told him to leave and locked the gate after him, never to allow another visitor. Blast. He'd come to love it here, and she'd made such progress.

He felt Welsh's pockets where he'd witnessed him stash the Dorsham jewels. Nothing.

He removed a tablecloth and draped it over the man's body before turning up a nearby wall lantern. The man didn't bring much in the way of possessions, other than the furniture already provided—a few books, a spice rack, a homemade quilt folded over the bed in the corner, and a stack of letters. He'd review those later.

Best to pen a missive to Lieutenant Scar to apprise him of the latest event while he waited for the physician. He sat at the roller desk and removed a sheet of paper.

Jacob paid Welsh a good salary and provided a roof over his head. Jacob had done his due diligence on Welsh before he hired him. His steward hadn't been in any debt or need of money. Why the life of crime?

His words haunted him. I did it for her.

Who was she?

Had he been suspecting Lord Benton when he should have been focusing on the man's wife?