She was almost holding her breath in case someone whom she knew boarded the coach at Barnet, but no new passengers claimed seats and the original four were soon on their way again. The die was cast. She was going to find Catherine Fellowes and then she might have her questions answered. It had briefly occurred to her that the lady might no longer live in Moresdale even if she ever had; she could not even be sure of that. She might have moved away, or even died. Louise hoped not; it would be sad never to have known her. She would never find out if she did not go, would she? Curiosity had always been one of her characteristics, but this was more than curiosity; this was a need to discover her identity. But it did not mean she wanted to leave the loving couple she would always look upon as her parents; she would come back. She had said so in her letter. She hoped they understood that this was something she had to do and it did not mean she loved them any less.
She settled back in her seat, prepared to sleep if she could, and advised Betty to do the same. ‘We have been awake all night,’ she whispered, with one eye on the couple sitting opposite them. ‘And if we are asleep, no one will engage us in conversation, will they?’
Most of the roads close to the metropolis had been turnpiked, but even those had been churned up by heavy wagons in winter and baked into ruts in summer. They were jolted from side to side and sleep was almost impossible. They passed through Hatfield, changed horses at the Duke of York at Ganwick Corner, then again at Stevenage without incident and were approaching Baldock when it happened.
Louise was drowsing, but was jolted fully awake by the shout of the guard and the coach being pulled to a sudden stop, followed by the sound of a gun being fired.
‘Highwaymen!’ she gasped, as the door was wrenched open and a black cloaked figure wearing a mask and brandishing a pistol ordered them out on to the road.
Chapter Two
Jonathan left the vicarage and rode to Chaston Hall, which was only eight miles distant, where he kept his coach and carriage horses. Finding a standing for them in London was difficult and his father’s estate in Barnet was large enough for them to be no trouble to him and near enough to the capital for him to send for them if they were needed.
He told his parents he would be away some time on the Society’s business, though he did not explain the nature of the business. And though they decried his secretiveness, they had become used to it. They bemoaned the day he had ever met James Drymore and his band of gentleman thieftakers. If it were not for them, he would be dancing attendance on the year’s hopefuls at London’s society balls and finding himself a wife. He would not find one chasing all over the countryside after criminals. At twenty-five, it was high time he set up his own establishment; his bachelor rooms in town did not count.
He smiled politely and allowed them to go on for some minutes before excusing himself and hastening out to the stables to tell Joseph Potton to harness up his travelling coach. He might be quicker on horseback, but if and when he caught up with the runaway he would need a vehicle to convey her home. ‘You and I are going alone,’ he told Joe. ‘Take a change of clothes, I do not know how long we will be gone.’
Joe grinned. ‘Chase ‘em and nab ‘em business, m’lord?’ he queried, using his own name for the Society. He was a sturdy twenty-year-old, though sometimes he behaved like someone twice his age, which was hardly surprising considering he had been born in poverty without a father and with a mother who turned him out when she was entertaining her men friends. The courts and alleyways of Ely had been his home. He would still be there if James had not rescued him and given him an education to fit him for a life in service. It was on James’s recommendation Jonathan had taken him on.
‘Yes, now make haste—we have not a moment to lose.’ The young lady had a day’s start and must be well on her way by now. In Jonathan’s favour was the fact that he had a far superior vehicle and was prepared to drive through the night, which the public coach would not do.
He left the boy to do his bidding while he went to his room to supervise his packing and console Hilson, his valet, for not taking him too. He changed swiftly from his silk coat, waistcoat and breeches and his lacetrimmed shirt into something resembling a yeoman farmer: brown stuff breeches tucked into sturdy boots, dark brown wool coat over a long narrow waistcoat and flat-crowned felt hat. He had never worn a wig and his own hair was tied back in a queue. The whole outfit horrified Hilson and though he had seen it before he bewailed that his young master should so far forget his rank and dignity as to dress like one of his father’s hired labourers. Jonathan simply laughed and pointed out he would not have the embarrassment of dressing him if he did not accompany him. Even so, he did allow the man to pack some decent clothes for him in case it became necessary to revert to being the Viscount. He heard the coach being brought to the front door and, picking up his bag, raced down and climbed in.
While daylight lasted, they made good time and had passed through Stevenage and were approaching Baldock, in the gathering twilight when Joe pulled the horses to a halt. Jonathan stuck his head out of the door. ‘What’s up?’
‘Something blocking the road ahead, my lord. A coach I think. Oh, lor’, it’s a hold-up!’
Jonathan left the carriage and climbed up beside Joe, the better to see. There was no doubt of it; the coach ahead of them was being searched by armed robbers. One had his head and half his torso in the coach searching it while its passengers stood on the verge being guarded by a second man with a pistol.
Jonathan, who always travelled with a pair of loaded pistols against such an eventuality, withdrew them from his pocket and urged Joe to spring the horses and make as much noise as he could.
Joe enjoyed doing that and between them they managed to make it sound like a cavalry charge. Joe brought the horses to a shuddering halt only inches from the back of the coach. Jonathan stood up on the box and fired his pistol at the gun hand of the man guarding the passengers. It flew from his hand. He swore and put his injured hand to his mouth. The man who had been searching the coach emerged and stood beside it empty-handed. ‘Stand still if you value your life!’ Jonathan commanded, aiming his second pistol at him, at the same time handing the first to Joe to be reloaded, which was done in record time. It was a routine they had practised many times and it meant he nearly always had a loaded weapon to hand. The robbers, seeing themselves outmanoeuvred, gave themselves up.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the coachman said, looking daggers at his guard, whose blunderbuss lay undischarged on the seat. ‘A most timely intervention. We are in your debt.’
Joe, the coachman and the guard tied the men securely with spare cord usually used to secure luggage on the roof, and bundled them into Jonathan’s carriage, while he turned to see if the passengers had been hurt.
‘You are to be congratulated, sir,’ a gentleman in the plain black suit of a cleric told him. ‘Such presence of mind I have rarely met. I am persuaded you are a military man?’
Jonathan bowed towards him, neither confirming nor denying it. ‘Is your good lady hurt?’ The lady in question was sagging against him, a handkerchief held to her face.
‘Very shocked, sir, but not hurt. She will be calmer by and by.’
Jonathan turned to the other couple, a slight young man and a girl, who was white as paper and shaking like an aspen. The man had his arm across her shoulders. ‘I must add my thanks to the others,’ he said, in the rather reedy voice of a youth. It puzzled Jonathan because it was so out of keeping with the look of him.
Dressed in a coat and breeches of blue woven silk, well made but not of the highest order, he stood erect, his head high, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist, the other round the young lady, protecting her. His face looked as though it had