The High-Class Highwayman Read online

  The High-Class Highwayman

  Copyright © 2010 by Julia Talbot

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

  Cover illustration copyright Alessia Brio

  Used with permission

  ISBN: 978-1-60370-959-0

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Torquere Press, Inc.: High Ball electronic edition / March 2010

  Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

  The High-Class Highwayman

  Julia Talbot

  Chapter One

  England 1780

  The heavy carriage lurched to the right and began to slow, the sound of the coachman cursing ringing loud and clear, even through the layers of wood and dirt separating them. Julian hoped to hell that the reason behind it was a dead animal in the road, or perhaps a wash from recent rains. He could ill afford anything untoward at this time of night, on this blighted country road.

  What on earth had his father been thinking, popping off in a brothel and leaving his entire fortune to a bastard child? The old man had possessed appalling timing, to be sure.

  The highwayman, who was even now shouting something dramatic about standing and so forth, had even worse timing.

  Julian could not have summoned a worse mood if he tried, though it threatened to worsen when he heard the clatter of Coachman’s weapon against the side of the rough track.

  So much for the loyalty of family servants. Perhaps he ought to offer to let the man return to Town and serve the bastard heir.

  “Oy! Out of the coach!” A loud banging on the door brought Julian out of his rather dire thoughts, and he sighed, pulling out the loaded pistol he carried when traveling, cocking the hammer fully as quietly as he could.

  Julian waited calmly, not bothering to dim the lamp. The man outside would be night-blind, which might give Julian the advantage.

  “Empty your purse and give me your jewels,” the man said when he got the door ajar. Filth caked under the man’s nails, and his clothes reeked of manure.

  “If I do not?”

  “I’ll shoot you?” A half-cocked flintlock was pushed through the door, and Julian eyed it askance.

  “Is it too much to ask for you to at least make it fair? I swear, the incompetence of footpads and highwaymen today. It’s too sad.”

  “What?”

  Perhaps he ought to be grateful it wasn’t a matchlock weapon. Then he’d have to wait for the fellow to figure out how to light the bloody string. Tiring of the wait, Julian aimed as carefully as he would in a duel and sent a ball into the thief’s shoulder.

  “Ah! You’ve shot me!” Staggering back, the man dropped his pistol, landing hard against the embankment on that ran along the road.

  “Well, what did you expect? I’m a busy man.” Climbing out of the carriage, Julian moved to the man’s side, careful to stay away from the blood and mud, careful as well not to touch the fellow’s clothes. “Coachman! Bring me a cloth.”

  Julian searched the man in the moonlight, taking a laden purse. He was newly paupered, after all. When the coachman brought him a strip of linen used to polish the lamps, Julian pushed it against the thief’s wound.

  “Hold this tight to the wound, and it will stop bleeding. Do yourself a favor and bathe it carefully when you return home. I doubt you have soap.”

  “Ruddy bastard. Shot me.”

  “It’s a scratch. A furrow, nothing more. I am a very careful shot. Good night to you.”

  A swift motion of Julian’s hand saw Coachman gathering up his weapon and resuming his post, and Julian climbed into the carriage, feeling as though he had gained something for his trouble. Between the bucolic country home that was his one inheritance from his mother, and the money in the highwayman’s purse, he could live comfortably for some weeks.

  After that, he would have to find some sort of living to turn his hand to. Honest or not.

  ***

  The night air rubbed at his exposed skin, sending tiny shivers through his muscles. Julian ignored the discomfort. He had but minutes longer to wait for Squire Fullsome’s landau. The soiree at the country home of a certain earl had broken up at half-past midnight, and the squire had won the distinction of having the fullest purse.

  Julian had very carefully made an appearance some hours ago, dancing with the earl’s daughter, much to the titters and tsks of the old birds who lined the ballroom walls like so many dowdy vultures. Feigning an early drunk, Julian had made his excuses and staggered out into the night.

  Now he waited for the man attached to the fat purse, the good squire having won a good deal of money at the friendly gaming tables the earl maintained at his parties.

  Damnation, it was cold.

  Still and all, he would do this hour’s worth of work and be set for more than a fortnight. His new vocation had provided him with the means to improve his life greatly over the past six months, and Julian found it extremely diverting that he had gained a certain amount of notoriety among the local populace.

  The High-Class Highwayman, they called him.

  One supposed that anyone who bathed and spoke more than two words of their native language might be considered well-born.

  His gelding shifted weight from one side to another, jolting Julian back into awareness. It didn’t do well to let his thoughts wander when he was on the road. While the local authorities were no match for him, he was earning enough attention in recent months that the reward on his head might begin to draw outside bounty hunters.

  Imagine. Bounty hunters.

  The sound of jingling harness and creaking wheels caught his ear, and Julian straightened in the saddle. Time to go to work. Fullsome’s driver was an older man, unlikely to fight back, and the squire himself was armed only with a decorative sword, which would be on the seat opposite him. The squire’s bad leg, which was his reason for taking a carriage on such a short jaunt, would preclude any sudden movements.

  The landau came into view, the leather capes on either end rolled up to protect the inhabitant from the cold. Julian waited, listening carefully, just to be certain that the squire hadn’t seen fit to give someone else a lift. Fullsome possessed a boisterous voice and a hearty laugh; were he conversing, a man on horseback no more than fifty feet away would know.

  The squire was alone.

  Drawing his pistol, Julian spurred his gelding down the bank beside the road, coming up behind the landau to better get the drop on the driver.

  “Halt!” Cantering alongside the driver, Julian held his pistol at arm’s length, his aim steady despite the gelding’s gait.

  He could see the momentary indecision in the set of the coachman’s shoulders. Stand and be robbed, or run and risk death on the dangerous, rutted track in the dark of night. Luckily, the chap made the right decision, hauling back on the reins and bringing the team to a stop, the carriage swinging sluggishly to one side.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The squire popped out of the door like a puppet out of a stage screen, wig askew on his hatless head.

  Secure in the effectiveness of his bulky garb and the mask that reached the bottom of his nose, Julian chuckled, reaching deep for his best theatrical voice. “Why, you’re being robbed, naturally. Your purse, if you please.”

  “And if I do not, sirrah?”

  “Do not what?” Biting back the smile that threatened, Julian pretended confusion.

  “Please. I do not, by the by.”

  “Then you should not go about this late at night, and unattended by a groom. Now, sir, your purse.” Julian waved the flintlock in what he hoped was a languidly ominous manner. It was so hard to tell when he was overdoing it.

  “I should have known better than to leave. I thought it was those bastards at the earl’s who would have robbed me blind, had I stayed.”

  “Yes, well, now you will know better than to refuse an offer of hospitality.”

  The squire finally dug his purse out from under his dangling belly. The heavy thing jingled with just the sort of wealth Julian needed to survive, and he allowed himself a smile when the squire tossed it to him. He caught it deftly with his free hand, knowing the gelding would stand without being held.

  “Thank you, kind sir. A good evening to you.” Tucking away the purse, Julian raised his gloved fingers to touch the brim of his tricorn hat.

  “Bah. Well-bred, ain’t you?” A light seemed to dawn over the squire’s jowly face. “You’re him! The highwayman. I’d forgot all about you.”

  “Perhaps now I will remain memorable. Again, many thanks.” Julian grabbed the reins and pulled up, squeezing with his left knee, and his gelding executed a neat rearing turn, one Julian hoped was suitably impressive.

  Then he galloped off into the night, intent upon counting his newly acquired cash and seeing how many more improvements he could make. His father’s creditors were all paid off, the servants back pay caught up.

  Julian laughed, urging the gelding to a faster pace. Some days crime really did pay.

  Chapter Two

  Griffen Michalis hated the country.

 
He was a city lad, born and bred. A gutter rat, not to put too fine a point on it, and the idea of green fields and cavorting lambs made him deeply suspicious, depressing his nerves greatly.

  Unfortunately, the man he needed to see never came to town anymore. Once Griffen would never have believed that Julian Bathington would ever willingly stay in such a bucolic place as Essex for any longer than it took to sell the crumbling pile of rock his mother had left him.

  Julian had turned out to be a surprise, in more ways than one.

  Griffen clucked at his team, urging them to a faster pace. The night was almost upon them, and Griffen had no desire to lodge at yet another flea-ridden inn. If he could make it to Julian’s and explain his errand, he would have a soft bed and a hot meal. Griffen would wager a great deal of money on that, and he never made a bet unless he was certain he would win.

  It was not often that a man returned his inheritance to its rightful owner, after all.

  Just the thought made him grimace.

  He was giving up a fortune, not to mention his mother’s very best job as an actress. Julian’s father had truly believed that Griffen was his bastard son, and that he was a far better man than Julian.

  If the old idiot had only known.

  The phaeton crashed over something in the center of the road, the light craft all but overturning.

  “Shit!” He flew through the air, and the back wheels bounced, his team trying to make a break for it. He controlled them with brute strength, sawing on the lines, his shout ringing out in the early evening air.

  “Whoa, now. Whoa, lads.” Geldings or not, they were still lads, and Griffen thought they behaved better if you treated them with some respect. “Good lads.”

  The team settled, the phaeton coming to a rather sideways halt at the side of the track.

  “What in hell was that?” Dropping to the ground, Griffen made sure the team was secure before going to investigate what he’d run over. With any luck it was a branch or carcass that was beyond saving.

  What he found was a largish bag, filled with rags and sticks. It was heavy enough to slow down just about any vehicle that might come along, but for a light carriage like his it could have been seriously damaging.

  Griffen surveyed the area. The road held deep pits in this area, the sides heavily overgrown. A hill broke the horizon, letting him know he’d been headed uphill. It was the worst possible place for a breakdown.

  Which meant he was probably about to be set upon by a knight of the road.

  Grand.

  His pistol and sword lay under his coat. The former was only half-cocked, not a bit ready, but the latter would be deadly enough should the rascal get close. Straining, Griffen listened for any hint of hoofbeats or footsteps. There were none. In fact, he heard nothing until the air stirred behind him and the muzzle of a weapon pressed against the back of his neck.

  “You’re devilishly good, sir,” Griffen said, striving for cordial.

  “Do you think so? Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome. What is it you think I have?” Griffen cataloged everything he could glean from the situation. The man held the flintlock in his right hand, standing slightly to Griffen’s left. He was tall, at least as tall as Griff, who was considered a giant among men by his gutter rat peers. The voice sounded cultured, far more educated than the average footpad.

  This one would not be easy.

  “I have no expectations save your purse, my good sir. Kindly hand it over.”

  “You would leave me out here with no way to get into town and no purse? You have quite ruined my phaeton.”

  “Ah, but you have managed to retain your team. I have no doubt you can coerce one of them into carrying you into the next staging inn.” The barrel of the weapon dug into Griff’s neck. “Your purse.”

  Moving slowly, one hand out to the side, Griff pulled out the purse he carried for show. He kept it moderately filled, light enough that he would not miss it, heavy enough to convince a thief that he was a well-heeled traveler.

  “There you are, sir. Be on your way, if you please.”

  A low chuckle raised the hair on the back of his neck. Not out of fear for his safety, however. No, this was pure, sensual delight. The man had a voice to remember.

  “I think I shall decide when I am done with you,” the thief said, moving a tiny tad closer.

  Griffen smiled. That was all he had needed, and more than he’d expected. Drawing in all of his energy, Griffen let it out in a quick burst, just as he would in a challenge of fisticuffs. He turned, knocking the flintlock aside, listening to the ball go pinging off into the brush.

  “Damnation!” The fellow grappled with him, keeping his hands occupied. A smart man, not letting him reach for his own weapons.

  Too bad for the gentleman bandit that Griffen did not fight fair. His knee came up, connecting sharply with the fellow’s nether parts, eliciting a groan that would have woken the dead. Then his fist connected with the bastard’s eye, knocking the man back on his bum.

  Before the bandit could move to right himself, Griff’s sword was drawn and the point lay at the man’s Adam’s apple.

  “My purse, if you please. And yours.”

  The fellow’s mask was not even askew. He truly was an admirable sort, especially for someone in Griffen’s position. The eyes that stared at him with such rage appeared to be blue, even in the deepness of dusk.

  “I have no purse,” the man spat, tossing Griffen’s purse back to him. “That is why I was stealing yours.”

  Griff could accept that. It was only just going dark, so he was probably the first mark of the night.

  “Very well, then. I wish you bon chance, my friend. Stay on the ground until I am well away or I will be forced to shoot you.” He pulled back his coat, allowing the man to see his flintlock.

  A growl was his only answer, but the thief stayed down, letting him cut the lines from the geldings to the phaeton, allowing him to mount one of them and lead the other.

  When Griffen topped the rise, the man was just a dark lump in the middle of the road, staring at him as he rode away.

  Really, if Griffen had not been in such a hurry to return Julian’s inheritance and be shed of the dust of the countryside, he might have lingered. There was much to admire there, after all.

  Chapter Three

  Julian limped into the kitchen of his ramshackle manor, pulling off gloves and mask, grunting when the skin under his eye pulled awfully. His housekeeper, who doubled reluctantly as his cook, was tucked away belowstairs, no doubt, snoring away in her stiff wooden chair, cat on her lap.

  Damn it all, he’d been so close to paying her wages for a month. Now he would have to prey on his neighbors once more, and pickings were getting slim. Add to that the throbbing pain in his balls, and he’d had a bad night of thievery indeed.

  He’d lost his best pistol, as well. That was what he got for being distracted by dark hair and the devil’s own form, wide-shouldered and strong of leg. His mark had intrigued him far too much.

  Sighing, Julian stripped off his coats, great outer and high-collared frock, and loosened the cloth at his neck. With any luck, there would be a plate of cold meat and cheese, along with some milk. He could withstand some sustenance.

  “Sir Julian?”

  Julian nearly jumped out of his skin. “Sam. You startled me.” Sam acted as his valet, his man about the house, and the lad oversaw the stable. Quite a bargain for someone with hardly a score of years.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The lad smiled, proving he was hardly sorry. They were much like brothers, he and Sam. “You have a visitor.”

  Julian raised a brow. “I do? Someone local?”

  “No, sir. From the City, he is. London, in fact.”

  “Indeed?” Fascinating. There had only been one traveler on the road in from Town. Julian knew. He’d set upon that very man and taken a drubbing. “What does he want?”

  Sam shrugged, a move so Gallic it would put a Frenchman to shame. “He says it’s about your father, sir. I didn’t ask no more.”

  “I asked no more,” Julian corrected, the move automatic. “Very well. Show him to the small parlour.”