Oliver resumed his resting place against the table. “I might have known, Anthony,” he drawled. “I can’t leave you alone for a week without you tangling yourself up with a she-lion.”
Anthony was still staring at the door. “Isn’t she astonishing? Who’d have thought it...out here in this backwash of civilization?”
Oliver barked a laugh. “You’re the astonishing one, my friend. If there’s a beauty within twenty shires, you’ll land at her doorstep.”
Anthony turned his gaze to his friend. “I’d wager there’s none in twenty shires to match her, perhaps in all of England.”
“Hell, Anthony, you’ve the look of a lovesick puppy dog. Who is she, anyway?”
“Old Fairfax’s niece. My hostess. Charles must not have known about her or he would have come on this mission himself.”
“You and the king make a fine pair. England can rot all around you as long as there’s a pretty face to watch.”
Anthony ignored the barb. “Tell me she’s not a beauty, Oliver.”
“Her features are fair enough, I guess, though I’d have been better able to judge if she hadn’t been eyeing me like a piece of meat she wanted to skewer.”
Anthony laughed. “You’re just upset because I got to her first. And because you’re the villain of the day, while I—” he gave a mock bow “—may yet prove to be her hero.”
“Aye. I forgot to thank you for all your bloody support in the interrogation just now.”
“Sorry, I figured I’d be better off not to take sides yet.”
“Not until you talk the beauteous Mistress Fairfax into your bed, you mean.”
“I can’t say the idea hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Oliver picked up a pewter mug from the table alongside him and heaved it at Anthony’s head. “It’s not your mind it crossed, you blackguard.”
Catching the mug easily with his left hand, Anthony scowled at his friend. “We’re not here to talk about Mistress Fairfax. What have you learned about the highwayman?”
Oliver crossed his burly arms. “The priest’s in it somewhere, I’m sure of that.”
“But he’s not the bandit.”
“No.”
Anthony began pacing the room. “I don’t like this. The town is obviously behind their parson. Why did you have to shackle the old man?”
“For effect. You don’t get information out of someone by treating him like a bloody prince.”
Anthony nodded. Oliver was right, of course, and it bothered Anthony to think that his own interest in Sarah was already fogging his judgment in this matter. “Well, if he doesn’t talk soon, we’ll have to move him to London. It will cause too much trouble to have him imprisoned here in his own town.”
“And it won’t help your relations with Mistress Fairfax any, either.”
Anthony disregarded his friend’s sarcasm. “Oliver, do you think the highwayman could be Fairfax himself?”
“General Fairfax?”
“We know the bandit is a swordsman. Looking around this village, I’d say there can’t be too many here with that particular skill.”
Oliver looked doubtful. “The general’s not a young man anymore. And somehow it doesn’t sound like his style. You don’t go from being a leader of thousands of men out on a battlefield to skulking around at night behind a mask.”
Anthony sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll do a little poking around at their manor house, just in case. In the meanwhile, have your men continue investigating, and keep after the parson. Maybe he’ll break down and give us the information we’re looking for. Just be sure you don’t kill the poor devil.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right poking around by yourself at the Fairfax manor?” Oliver asked with a perfectly straight face.
Anthony grimaced. It was the kind of double entendre humor that was rife at court, but somehow it sounded out of place out here in the fresh Yorkshire countryside. Especially when it concerned Sarah Fairfax. “Don’t be crude, Kempthorne.” Anthony decided it was time to go on the offensive. “Just because you’ve always preferred your horse to a fine lady.”
Oliver’s mistrust of women was well-known at court. During the exile years he had fallen so badly for a French countess that he had abandoned his friends for weeks. When he returned to their company, he informed them curtly that, unbeknownst to him, the countess had had a count, and she was not about to lose either the riches or the title he gave her merely for the sake of a fugitive Englishman with uncertain prospects. A few days later somebody had ventured to tease him about his lost countess. The tormentor had ended up with part of his ear sliced off. After that, no one said anything when Oliver refused to join their parties with the ladies.
“Horses are loyal,” Oliver said. “They’re happy with one master, and they do what they’re told.”
“Some women are loyal, too, my friend,” Anthony said gently. “And I haven’t given up on convincing Mistress Fairfax to do as I bid her.”
“You just may have met your match in this one, Rutledge. After all, her uncle was one of the men who defeated the most powerful king in the world. And your Mistress Fairfax looked none too docile to me.”
Anthony grinned. “It’s going to be an interesting challenge.”
Oliver straightened up with a snort and started out the door. “Go on back to your courting, Rutledge. I’ve work to do.”
* * *
Sarah was outside with several of the villagers who had refused to return to their homes. Her slight form dominated the group, though Anthony could not say if it was her bearing or the regal simplicity of her black velvet riding habit. Her expression was grave as he approached.
“What are they going to do to him?” she asked.
Anthony scanned the anxious faces in front of him. “He’s obviously not the masked rider they’re looking for. But there does seem to be some link with the stolen goods. If any of you know something more about the thief, you could help your Parson Hollander greatly by speaking to the authorities.”
There was utter silence. Anthony could not detect even a particle of guilt in their solemn expressions. He sighed. If the parson really was involved in the crimes, it meant that they were the work of more than a single miscreant. It might even mean that the whole village was involved. And the good people looking at him so earnestly at this moment knew exactly who the robber was.
Anthony looked back at Sarah with something like regret. He had the feeling that she, too, had the answers he sought. Who would hold the village’s respect enough to carry out such a conspiracy? Her uncle, surely, but as Oliver had said, he was not a very likely candidate. Perhaps it was the young suitor he had seen with Sarah earlier.
After several moments of silence, Mayor Spragg cleared his throat and said, “We don’t know anything about it, Lord Rutledge.” Several heads bobbed up and down in agreement.
Anthony turned to Sarah. “You’re all willing to let the parson molder away in prison?”
“It doesn’t appear that we have any choice,” she snapped.
“They ain’t going to hang the parson, are they, Mistress Sarah?” The tiny voice came from a boy of about ten years with a dirty cherub face and a thatch of thick brown hair.
Sarah took a step toward the child and knelt down to put an arm around his thin shoulders. “They won’t hang him, Benjamin. The parson’s no thief, and they’ll figure that out soon enough, I reckon.”