Marianne had no option but to hold her head high and climb inside.
She had her father’s eyes. Black as midnight, wary, and watching him with that same contempt Misbourne used on those around him. Little wonder she was the apple of her father’s eye. Little wonder he guarded her as if his pampered daughter were as precious as the crown jewels. In the rest of her face she favoured her mother. Her shapely lips pressed firm and her small nostrils were flared. His gaze swept over the blonde tendrils that framed her face, so soft and pale beside the strong darkness of her eyes. But the eyes, it was said, were windows to the soul. He wondered whether Marianne Winslow’s soul was as black as her father’s. He pulled the curtains closed and the stiffening of the girl’s body, the sudden fear in her face, spurred a twinge of irritation within him. As if he would ravish her, as if he would even touch her. Misbourne was the blackguard in this, not him.
‘I have told you that you have nothing to fear from me,’ he snapped. ‘Given your propensity for escape, you will understand the need for preventative measures.’ He produced a short length of rope.
‘And if I refuse?’ She raised her chin a notch.
‘You have no choice in the matter, my lady.’
She stared at him as if he were the devil incarnate. ‘You are a villain.’ Her voice was high, her face pale.
‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘And you had best not forget it, Lady Marianne, especially if you have any idea of resisting me.’
Her eyes widened, but she did not suffer an attack of the vapours or hysteria as he had expected of Misbourne’s coddled daughter. Indeed, she did not cry or plead or scream. Everything about her was contained and careful. She just eyed him with a quiet defiance and more courage than many a man as he bound her wrists behind her back, checking that the rope was not too tight.
He turned his attention away from the woman and slid open the dark wooden panel beneath his seat to remove the small travelling bag from within. He took his time, yet his actions were slick and smooth, well practised. From the bag he took a pair of highly polished riding boots, a new hat and a pair of the finest black-leather gloves. Then he removed the pistols from his pockets, checked they were safe and laid them at the bottom of the bag. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, rolled it into a ball and thrust it on top of the pistols. The tricorn hat, his shabby gloves and the old boots followed, before the bag was stowed out of sight once more. He glanced up to find Marianne watching him. Their eyes met through the dim grey light and that same frisson of awareness rippled through him, just as it had before. And the thought that he could feel any measure of attraction towards Misbourne’s daughter sent anger licking right through him.
She turned her face away, fixing her gaze on the dark curtains drawn across the window.
He kept his eyes on her as he slid his feet into the smart black boots, scraped his hair back into a low tidy queue at the back of his head and tied it in place with a black ribbon from the pocket of his tailcoat. But the woman was not stupid; she did not look at him again. Not once. Not through the little country towns of Brentford or Hammersmith or even the village of Kensington. He slipped his hat and gloves in place and the rest of the journey continued in silence, the tension between them seeming to wind tighter with every mile closer they travelled through London. Eventually, Callerton thumped the carriage body and Knight knew they were nearing St Giles Rookery. He looked at Misbourne’s daughter.
‘Time to move, Lady Marianne.’
She glanced round at him then. A small steady movement as controlled as everything else about her, yet he could sense the sudden escalation of distrust and see the flash of fear in those large dark eyes. He felt his conscience stir at what he was doing, but her gaze flitted momentarily away and when she looked back at him it was as if she had drawn a veil across her eyes and the only expression on her face was one of contempt. She looked so like Misbourne that any doubts he might have harboured vanished instantly.
Knight reached for her arm and moved to execute the next stage of his plan.
In the study of his town house in Leicester Square, the Earl of Misbourne lay on a daybed covered by a cream woollen blanket and listened to the carriage sounds from the street outside.
‘He is gone.’ Francis Winslow—or Viscount Linwood, as he was otherwise known—Misbourne’s son and heir, stood by the window and watched Pickering’s carriage until it turned the corner and headed away from the square. ‘Do you think he believed us?’ Linwood’s eyes were as dark and venomous as his father’s as he came to stand by the daybed.
Misbourne gave a nod.
‘It will be more difficult tomorrow when he returns and wishes to visit his betrothed. Although the story of our “carriage crash” being all over tomorrow’s newspapers should help. I’ve ensured the news is already being whispered in the clubs.’ His son was good at taking care of such details, but Misbourne offered no thanks; his mind was on other matters.
He slipped the crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and smoothed it out that he might stare at it again. The hand was bold, the words, few as they were, angular and angry. A place. A year. And the highwayman’s demand.
1795, Hounslow Heath
The document that was taken—in exchange for your daughter.
He was thinking, and thinking hard. There was only one other person that knew of the document and Misbourne had eyes and ears stationed in every main port in the south watching for his return. It was possible that Rotherham had evaded detection, that he was back in England already. Misbourne’s blood ran cold at the thought and he shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.
‘Father?’ Linwood was staring down into his face and he could see the concern and agitation in the eyes that were so like his own.
‘Let me think,’ Misbourne snapped. It made no sense. Whatever else Rotherham was, he was a man of his word and one who liked everything done exactly to the letter. There was still time left before he would come. Time enough for the wedding between Marianne and Pickering.
Misbourne lounged back against the pillows of his bed and read the words again. The criminal fraternity had a way of talking even when they’d been sworn to silence. A boast in the tap room of a public house, a whisper in the ear of the buxom wench beneath them. Thank God for illiteracy. He wondered how much the highwayman could possibly know.
‘You are not well, Father. Let me deal with this in your stead,’ said Linwood.
‘Don’t fuss so, boy, I tell you I’m fine.’ An idea was taking shape in Misbourne’s mind.
‘And I disagree,’ said Linwood without a flicker of emotion.
‘You always were a stubborn little sod.’
‘Chip off the old block, so they say.’ Linwood held his gaze.
Misbourne gave a smile and shook his head. ‘And they’re not wrong.’
‘Then let us go to the brotherhood,’ said Linwood without returning the smile, speaking of the secret society of which both he and his father were members. ‘Seek their assistance in this.’
‘No!’
‘It’s different now that Hunter is the Master. He’ll help us and—’
‘I said, no, damn you, boy!’ Misbourne felt a stirring of panic and knew he had to convince his son. ‘We manage this ourselves. This is family business; it does not go out with this room, no matter what else you might think.’
Linwood’s face was angry and defiant.
‘I will not risk Marianne’s reputation. I will not risk your sister’s safety. Do you understand?’
Linwood gave a sullen nod. ‘What is this letter from fifteen years ago that he wants?’ It was the question that Misbourne most dreaded to hear.
‘None