His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee

in front of him. She shook her head.

      ‘If I were to leave the candles here…’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, and the relief was so great that she felt like weeping. ‘Yes,’ she repeated and could think of nothing else. The highwayman passed her the branch of candles. Her hand was trembling as she took it; she hated the thought that he might see it, so she turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she added and sank back into the room, clutching the candles tight to ward away the darkness.

      There was silence for a moment, then the closing of the door and the sound of his footsteps receding.

      She stared at the flicker of the candle flames and thought again that, in truth, he was no ordinary highwayman.

      The clock in the corner on the mantelpiece chimed midnight. Misbourne left his son and his wife in the drawing room and made his way to his study. He needed time to think, needed space away from his wife’s incessant weeping, because his heart was filled with dread and his stomach churning with fear over the gamble he had taken.

      ‘Had he released her she would be here by now,’ Linwood had whispered and Misbourne knew that his son was right. Yet he could not admit it, even to himself. He needed a brandy to calm his nerves. He needed time to gather his strength and hide his fears.

      But everything changed when he opened the door to his study. For there, on the desk that he had left clear, lay two pieces of paper like pale islands floating on the vast sea of dark polished mahogany. One was a smooth-cut sheet of writing paper, and the other was a crushed paper ball. His heart faltered before rushing off at a gallop. He hurried across the room to the desk. The writing paper bore his own crest, but it was not his hand that had penned those three bold letters and single word.

      IOU Misbourne.

      The ink glistened in the candlelight. His hand was shaking as he touched a finger to it and saw its wetness smear. He whirled around, knowing that the words had only just been written. Behind him the curtains swayed. He wrenched them open, but there was no one there. The window was up and the damp scent of night air filled his nose. He leaned his hands on the sill, craning his head out, searching the night for the man who had the audacity to walk right into his home to leave the message. But not a single one of the lamp posts that lined the road had been lit. The street was dark and deserted. Not a figure stirred. Not a dog barked. And of the highwayman there was no sign.

      He knew what the crumpled ball of paper was before he opened it. The letter he had sent to the highwayman. A letter that could have been used against Misbourne. A letter that could cost him much in the wrong hands. Crumpled as if it were worthless. The villain knew what the document was. He knew, and there was only one man left alive with that knowledge. Misbourne felt sick at the thought. It was everything he had guarded against. Everything he had prayed so hard to prevent. He shut the window and closed the curtains, knowing it would do little good; the highwayman had been in his home, the one place that should have been safe.

      He filled a glass with brandy, sat behind his desk and drank the strong warming liquid down. His eyes never left the words written upon the paper. Misbourne was more afraid than he had ever been, both for himself and for Marianne. He knew there was only one thing to do when the highwayman next made contact. If the highwayman next made contact.