Two days later.
Elizabeth sat curled up in the window seat of the upstairs parlor, going over figures in the account book, basking in the relative peace of the afternoon. Her Aunt Bertie sat nearby in her favorite chair, reading the newspaper and humming softly, and her grandmother stitched quietly.
Bonnie charged into the room, swinging her protective vest in one hand and wielding a small hammer in the other. She stopped directly in front of Elizabeth. “If I leave the lead ball lodged in the wood, it will make the vest that much stronger.”
It was a question, of course, but Bonnie preferred to make challenging statements rather than beg for an answer. Elizabeth glanced up from her accounting. “If the wood is compromised, you ought to replace the slat as well.”
“Oh bother.” Bonnie stamped her foot and turned away to plop down on a small stool beside the hearth.
“Altogether too much work. I’ll simply patch it. Besides, what are the chances of getting shot in the same place twice?”
“Don’t say such things!” Aunt Lavinnia, Bonnie’s mother, stood in the doorway, her hand over her heart. “I should hope you will never get shot again. Anywhere.”
“No, Mama, of course not.” Bonnie set to work nailing down a new piece of tin over her punctured one.
“Good. Now, do exactly as Lizzy says. That contraption saved your life.” Lavinnia positioned herself on the settee and pulled out a pile of sewing.
Bonnie muttered softly and continued doing a patch job instead of a replacement.
Elizabeth shook her head. Her cousin Bonnie had a stubborn streak inherited from their grandmother.
Bonnie’s twin sister, Blythe, floated in behind her mother and sat down at the pianoforte. She toyed with nine notes, playing them over and over, rearranging and regrouping them into various melodies, while her twin’s hammer tapped incongruously to the harmony.
Aunt Bertie rustled her newspaper and hummed all the louder.
Elizabeth marveled that they could all concentrate regardless of one another’s activity. Despite the discordant racket in the parlor, she heard a noise outside in the yard and lifted the edge of the lace curtain. Lord Mulvern’s coach rolled to a stop. She took a deep breath, set her book down on the table, and hurried across the worn Aubusson rug to her grandmother’s chair.
Nana Rose’s old straight-backed chair creaked when Elizabeth squatted down and grabbed hold of the arm. “Nana, Lord Mulvern is here. Promise you will be on your best behavior.”
Her grandmother stiffened her spine and looked down her nose at Elizabeth. “What can you be saying, Lizzy? I am always on my best behavior.”
“You know precisely what I mean. Try not to goad him.”
“I will speak as I please to the man who murdered my sons and took away my—”
It was an old refrain. One they all knew by heart. “Not today, Nana. Please.”
“Why should today be any different? He’s still a murderer.” Nana Rose nearly spit the words, belying her dignified appearance—starched black bombazine and cloud-white hair coiled up high enough to suit even Marie Antoinette. “Just as Cain slew Able and was punished, so—”
“Yes, of course. But I ask you, please consider the effect one slip of the tongue might have on your granddaughters. We cannot risk it.” She patted her grandmother’s hand and stood up to survey the rest of their family.
Blythe stopped playing the pianoforte, her face paler than usual.
“My dear.” Elizabeth shook her head. “You mustn’t worry. All will be well. Why don’t you keep playing? It relaxes you.”
“Yes, widgeon. Don’t fret.” Bonnie hopped up from her stool, tucked her chest protector into the bottom of the cupboard, and kissed her twin sister on the head. “It’ll be a jolly bit of fun to see what he knows.”
Blythe did not turn back to the piano keys. Instead, she lowered her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. Her flaxen hair fell forward, a silken curtain behind which she would hide.
Bertie dropped her newspaper to the floor and went to check on the arrival for herself. She stood boldly before the window, as a man might, without the slightest concern for propriety. She drew back the curtains with one hand, while rapping the knuckles of her other impatiently against the wall. “Blast. Double blast. What in blazes is Mulvern doing here?”
Nana Rose sniffed. “Probably got wind of something, the old goat.” She didn’t look up from the pile of black silk she was stitching. It was hard to distinguish which was the new fabric being sewn and which was her flowing black mourning dress.
“Lizzy is right. We must all mind our manners.” Lavinnia glanced about the room genially, her frilly white mobcap bobbing cheerfully over her yellow curls. “Bound to visit, isn’t he? He’s family, after all. A gentlemanly thing to do.” She surveyed her twin daughters. “Best foot forward, girls. Do try to smile, Blythe dear.”
“Well, I don’t like it.” Bertie plunked back down into her chair, which hailed from King Henry the 8th’s reign, and rubbed at the carved claw on the end of the arm. The wood had long ago lost its varnish. “Not a bit of it.”
Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room. “We must all stay calm.” She adjusted her serviceable brown muslin, hoping to hide the patchwork in the folds of the skirt, and pinched her cheeks. She considered her high cheekbones her only admirable asset. Pinching them was her last remaining bow to vanity.
Footsteps clattered in the entryway, and Lord Mulvern’s booming voice echoed up the stairs as he groused at the housemaid. “No need to announce me, girl. Confound it. It’s my house after all.”
They all listened as their maid stoically insisted on protocol. “That’s as may be, m’lord. But the ladies might require a moment to prepare for visitors.” The spry housemaid scampered up the stairs ahead of him and dashed into the parlor. “It’s his lordship, mum. And he’s brought Master Trace with him.”
“Trace? Here?” Elizabeth dropped down on the settee, astonished.
The gentlemen were not long behind. Lord Mulvern’s massive height took up most of the doorway. “You see what I must put up with.” Removing his hat, exposing a head of frizzled graying hair, he addressed, not them, but his companion. “Confounded dower house. Packed to the gills with females. Can’t take a step without tripping over a petticoat or something of the kind.”
Nana Rose elevated her nose higher into the air. “Pray, do forgive us, your lordship. We will endeavor to go without undergarments if you insist. Indeed, on our current allowance, I’m surprised there’s more than one petticoat to be found in the entire house.”
Lord Mulvern frowned at his sister-in-law.
Elizabeth stood up and beckoned to him. “Come in, Lord Mulvern. Please be seated.” She strained to see past his shoulders to catch a glimpse of Trace. “The maid said your stepson is with you?”
“So he is.” Lord Mulvern thumped into the room and took possession of Elizabeth’s seat on the settee next to Lavinnia. “With Napoleon tucked away for good this time, Trace’s work is done. Sold off his commission. He’s come home to hunt down the band of thieves terrorizing our neighborhood.”
Elizabeth forgot to breathe as Trace entered the room. The friend she remembered had changed. There was nothing of the boy left in him. His face no longer held the smooth fullness of youth. Well-defined angles had taken its place. The small parlor filled with the clean scent of his shaving soap and the crisp smell of freshly pressed linen. His bearing was that of an officer in command: robust, regal. She stepped back. Indeed, the self-assurance in his blue eyes made her feel nervous and fascinated at the same time.
“Trace.” Her voice scratched out, scarcely rising above a whisper.
“Lizzy?” He removed his hat, surveying her curiously. “I hope we find you well?”
She nodded, surprised to see his honey brown hair still curling intriguingly around his ears and neck. That, at least, had not changed.
Suddenly, Elizabeth wished she had not drawn her hair back so severely that morning. The single black knot at her neck could not possibly flatter her. She looked down at the ugly brown muslin gown. Oh, why hadn’t she worn her other dress? She must look a ghastly old crow.
But what did it matter? What were such foolish thoughts to anything? She was an ape leader, at five and twenty, on the shelf for so many years she had grown moldy. Lord Mulvern’s stepson would have no interest in an aging spinster. She smiled with all the dignity she could muster and offered him her hand.
Trace grasped it warmly. “A pleasure to see you again.” He said it as if the sentiment almost surprised him.
She swallowed. “Yes. Welcome home.” She nervously pulled her hand from his. There were no remaining seats, except the wobbly old spindle-legged chair against the wall. She glanced dubiously at it.
He followed her gaze and without hesitation moved the frail chair forward. “This will serve.”
Elizabeth squeezed onto the end of the settee, forcing her Aunt Lavinnia to scoot closer to Lord Mulvern, and folded her hands in her lap. “We’ve read and reread all the accounts in the papers of your . . .” She faltered, searching for the right words.
Bertie nodded. “Heroism. Well done, lad.”
“Yes.” Nana Rose cleared her throat, sitting as stiff as if her back was strapped to a posture board. “Of course, we might’ve known of your stepson’s accomplishments much sooner were our papers not a month old and missing pages.” She glared at Lord Mulvern.
“Twaddle.” Lord Mulvern snapped his fingers. “No sense wasting money on a second subscription. Tut, tut. It’s enough I have ’em bundled up and sent over. A simple economy.” He adjusted his brocade vest. “As usual, Rose, you’ve veered from the point. Trace has come home to hunt down our band of French cutthroats.”
Lavinnia tilted her head sideways, a hand on her pink cheek. “Oh, but Adrian, they haven’t cut any throats! Have they?”
Lord Mulvern leaned over and patted her hand. “No, my dear. A figure of speech. But, I daresay, the blackguards nearly killed Sir Godfrey two nights past.”
Bertie turned sharply, suddenly very attentive. “What do you mean, nearly killed him?”
“Oh dear.” Lavinnia held both hands to her face now. “Will the poor man recover?”
“Yes. Yes. Not to worry. He’s fine. Nothing to it, save a lump the size of Mount Vesuvius on the back of his head. The good news is ole Godfrey shot one of the brigands—dead.”
“Dead?” Bonnie nearly tipped over on her three-legged stool as she leaned forward, her eyes wide with interest. “Did you find a body? Were there great pools of blood in the road?”
“Bonnie!” Elizabeth called her reckless cousin to task.
Lord Mulvern harrumphed. “Quite right. Ought not discuss such gruesome things in mixed company.”
Elizabeth shot Bonnie a warning glance.
Lord Mulvern continued with his subject. “Point is, we can’t have these confounded thieves terrorizing m’neighborhood. Trace will get to the bottom of it.”
“Hardly terrorizing the neighborhood.” Bertie interjected.
“Doing a jolly good job of frightening my guests. Hanging sacks pulled over their heads. Guns. Swords. Enough to scare the life out of ’em, I can tell you that.” Mulvern frowned at Bertie.
“What were the sacks made of, do you know?” Nana Rose actually sounded pleasant for once.
Lord Mulvern shrugged. “No idea. Black cloth of some sort.”
“Ah, well, if you don’t need them, we could put the cloth to use. Nothing goes to waste in this house. Perhaps you would send them over with the newspapers next time.”
Bertie nearly choked. She glanced furtively at Elizabeth and cleared her throat. “What I meant to say is, none of the neighbors appear to be afraid.”
“I see your point.” Mulvern rubbed his jaw. “Somebody had to see something. Fact of the matter is they’re all deuced tight-lipped. I’ve heard rumors though. Not only that, but this morning, I witnessed with my own eyes farmer Turner laying on new thatch. I’ll wager that French rascal left him one of those famous bags of coins I’ve heard the servants whispering about.”
“How lovely!” Lavinnia sighed happily and held up a piece of velvet cloth she was working on. “Mrs. Turner is about to have another wee one. New thatch will keep them warmer and dryer next winter.” She smiled her approval on the group.
Lord Mulvern looked outraged at her suggestion. “Ain’t lovely, Lavinnia. It’s thievery! It’s Sir Godfrey’s money. Not theirs.”
Lavinnia dropped her sewing into her lap and lowered her head. “Of course, you’re right, my lord. I only meant it would be such a benefit for Mrs. Turner and their children.”
He calmed down and moderated his tone. “Of course, Turner won’t say how he got the coin. But it had to be one of those confounded velvet bags.”
Nana Rose clucked her tongue. “Ought to have been your coin, Adrian, thatching that roof. He’s your tenant. Their youngest almost died from the cold last winter. Unless, perhaps, you think you can stand the weight of another death on your soul.”
“Don’t start with me, Rose.” Lord Mulvern flexed his jaw. “Look about you. This is practically a widows’ and orphans’ home I’m funding here. I’m spending every spare penny I have to take care of your lot. Although why I stand the expense is more than I can fathom. It isn’t enough I’m bankrolling every poor relation in my brother’s family, but you must go and give refuge to every destitute female for miles around.”
“You’re the soul of generosity, and we’re exceedingly grateful.” Lavinnia smiled admiringly at him. “You have a good heart.”
Nana Rose coughed forcefully and grumbled under her breath. “A guilty heart. If you think the pittance you give us is going to stave off roasting in hell for your crimes, you best think again—”
“Would you care for some refreshments, Lord Mulvern? Trace?” Elizabeth quickly got up, grabbed the bell from her grandmother’s side table, and rang it perhaps a little louder than necessary.
The maid appeared in the doorway.
“Food and drink, Maggie, for the gentlemen.”
The maid whispered to Elizabeth, but in the silence, surely everyone overheard. “What would you have me bring, miss? The biscuits is gone. And we used the last of—”
“Surely, you and Cook can think of something.” Elizabeth sat back down and attempted to take the reins of the conversation firmly in hand. She turned to Trace. “How do you plan to capture these highwaymen?”
“Our first—”
Mulvern interrupted. “That’s why we’ve come. The tenants are as closemouthed as a passel of black-robed monks. I want the truth from you. Have those scoundrels left you money?”
“Money?” Elizabeth averted her eyes.
“Don’t play coy with me, my girl. Fabric doesn’t come cheap.” He picked up a corner of the velvet lying in Lavinnia’s lap. “Yet, here you are, sewing.”
“You don’t see me sewing.” Bertie thrummed her fingernails against the wooden arm of her chair.
Mulvern ignored her. “Speak up, Lizzy. Did you receive money from the thieves?”
She opened her palm. The appropriate answer eluded her like a butterfly. “It’s possible.” She glanced at Trace. He sat on the rickety chair, alert, studying her, assessing the room. Altogether too observant.
She capitulated quickly, the lie souring her mouth, but there was no help for it. “Very well. Yes. We received a few coins. A small bag left on the porch. Enough for some fabric, but that is all. It could have been from anyone. Perhaps someone in the village felt charitable. As you said, many girls come here with nowhere to go—”
Mulvern slapped his hands on the frayed settee, flecks of aged horsehair puffed up around his fingers. “Betrayed by my own kin! You see?” He waved his hand through the air, indicting the inhabitants of the dower house, serving up his plight to Trace. “Even they are in collusion with the robbers.”
The corner of Trace’s mouth curved upward. “Clever, our highwaymen. Very clever. They ingratiate themselves with the whole neighborhood, thus protecting any information that may lead to their capture.”
“Aye, and what are we to do about it?”
Trace rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I suggest, my lord, that you set a snare. Hold a ball. Order cakes and pastries from the village, just as you normally would for one of your dinner parties. Buy meats from the butcher. Cut flowers. Hire local musicians.”
“A ball! Deuced expensive. And for what? So my guests may be waylaid by The Frenchman afterward. I think not.” Mulvern crossed his arms stubbornly. “I shall simply stop entertaining at all.”
Lizzy admired the eager gleam in Trace’s eyes. A man ready for the hunt. He would be a formidable opponent.
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it.” He leaned forward, advancing his idea, pausing until he held everyone’s attention captive. “You will not invite any guests. A false ball, if you will, to lure out our French rascal. The rogue is bound to hear of all the preparations. Such a night would be more temptation than he and his band can resist.”
Lord Mulvern scratched at his wiry side-whiskers as he considered.
Elizabeth could not resist tampering with Trace’s scheme. She tilted her head sideways. “Ah, I see. You intend to lay a trap. Perhaps a coach filled with men, guns primed and at the ready?”
Trace smiled approvingly. “Always the quick mind, Lizzy. Yes. That’s it, exactly.”
She tapped a finger against her cheek. “It’s a pity to waste all that food for no guests. Not to mention the cost of musicians.” She poised on the edge of the settee. “What if your French highwayman should peek into Lord Mulvern’s windows? Will he not smell out the ruse?”
Mulvern grunted. “Let him. I’ll post men to keep watch on the grounds. Blow the fellow into the next realm if he steps foot on m’place.”
“Oh.” She nodded, and then sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, you might accidentally shoot one of the children from the village merely coming to spy on your wonderful ball. You know how they love to see the adults dancing and dressed in their finery.”
Nana Rose sniffed. “What’s one more death to his credit, among so many?”
Lord Mulvern exhaled loudly and frowned at his former sister-in-law.
Lavinnia mewed. “I can understand the children’s curiosity.” Her round little shoulders lifted eagerly. “I would like to peek at it myself. A ball would be perfectly splendid. I haven’t been to a ball this age. I know the twins would adore it.”
Mulvern shifted uneasily.
Elizabeth could scarcely keep from smiling.
Trace sat, arms folded, with an all-too-observant look on his face again.
Time to bring the game to a close, Elizabeth decided. “Perhaps it would aid your ruse if we filled out the guest list? There are quite a number of us. We might lend credence to the appearance of a ball.”
“Oh yes!” Bonnie jumped up, toppling the stool. “How wonderful it would be to eat cakes and meat. Any meat, aside from rabbit. Do you think you’ll serve roast beef, Uncle Adrian? Oh, that would be heavenly.”
Lord Mulvern sank back, somewhat colored in his cheeks. “Yes. Fine. We’ll make it a family affair, eh?”
“How lovely.” Lavinnia’s pleasure shifted to alarm. “Oh, but what will we wear? The girls have nothing at all.”
Lord Mulvern ran a finger around his collar. “It’s a false ball. No sense fussing overmuch with your appearance.”
Trace grinned sideways at Elizabeth. “It might perfect the illusion if the ladies were dressed properly. I believe, my lord, you still have a closet full of my mother’s dresses, do you not? Perhaps the ladies might make over some of those to suit the occasion?”
Lord Mulvern looked down, a blanket of sadness thrown over his features. He mumbled and shook his head. “Dora’s gowns? I don’t know, I . . . they were . . . hers.”
Nana Rose looked at Elizabeth. Elizabeth glanced covertly at Lavinnia. The three of them knew from personal experience the anguish underneath Lord Mulvern’s hesitancy.
Lavinnia covered his hand with hers. “Never you mind, Adrian. We’ll make do. You keep your dear departed wife’s dresses just as they were.”
“No.” Mulvern sighed. “No, you’re right. I suppose it would be better to put them to good use. I’ll send over the gowns. Should have done so long ago.”
Nana Rose tilted her head and squinted at him, curiously.
The maid interrupted, setting a teapot and two chipped cups and saucers down by the accounting book on the table. Elizabeth slipped the book away, tucking it under the settee. She lifted the teapot lid and grimaced. It was half-full of weak tea. She poured, setting a cup before each gentleman.
Trace thanked her graciously and managed to balance on the rickety chair and drink the pitiful concoction as if perfectly at ease.
Lord Mulvern took one look at the liquid in his cup and set the cup back on the saucer. “We must be going. I want to interview more of the tenants. I mean to discover exactly who’s been receiving booty from these thieves.”
Bertie snorted. “Won’t say a word with you there, now will they?”
“Bertie is right.” Trace set his cup down. “A fruitless venture.”
Elizabeth spoke, quietly, uncertain of the wisdom behind her offer. “I’m to deliver sick-baskets for the vicar tomorrow. Perhaps I might ask if anyone has seen anything, and then report back to you.”
Lord Mulvern brightened. “She’s onto something there.”
Trace agreed and asked if he might accompany her.
Mulvern’s interest heightened. “Aye, and have a look about while Lizzy is talking to them. Bound to be a clue of some sort. Someone must’ve helped the wounded fellow. Godfrey said the blighter shrieked like a banshee. Had to have been shot well and good.”
Bonnie clapped her hands together. “Perhaps they buried the bandit in the woods. Maybe you should search for a fresh grave.”
Mulvern frowned at Bonnie. “Morbid speculation for a gel.”
Lizzy hurried to cover her cousin’s faux pas. “We’ve been lax in her choice of books—too many gothic novels, I’m afraid.”
Mulvern tapped his fingers on his thighs. “On the other hand, she might be on to something. I ought to have some men comb the woods.”
Elizabeth glared at Bonnie.
The minx waggled her shoulders back and forth, like a smug child who knows a secret. “I don’t know what good it will do. Rained yesterday. A grave would be washed out. Wolves would have ripped apart the carcass and chewed the bones to pieces.”
Mulvern grimaced. “Egad, child. How ghoulish! Yes, by all means, you must restrict her reading.” He sniffed and straightened the lace at his cuff. “Aside from that, there haven’t been wolves in that forest for a hundred years.”
Bonnie shrugged. “Even if wolves didn’t eat it, other scavengers would.”
Blythe sat silently in the background, hiding behind her silken hair.
Elizabeth decided there had been enough precarious discussions for one afternoon. “Blythe, dear, will you play something for us?”
Without answering, Blythe turned to the pianoforte, her fingers moving over the keyboard with clarity and passion. In some passages, she played the keys so softly the hammers barely struck the strings, and at other times, with such ferocity that the old pianoforte fairly thundered.
Everyone listened, barely breathing, as she filled their minds with exotic cadences and images of midnight dancing among the trees of Claegburn Wood. The sewing lay forgotten in their laps and even restless Bertie did not move until Blythe struck the last note.
The room lay still, except for the ticking of the old clock on the cupboard. Trace inhaled deeply and glanced at Elizabeth, his brows raised. “She’s talented.” He leaned forward addressing Blythe. “That was beautiful. Enchanting. Was it a sonata perhaps? What is the name of the piece?”
She startled everyone by looking up, her pale blue eyes boring directly into his. “I call it, The Highwayman’s Rhapsody.”
Trace recoiled, resting against the back of the decrepit chair, his brows pinched together. Calculating. Elizabeth panicked. She remembered from their youth that intense look in his eyes. She saw his mind leaping to solve the puzzle. He was far too quick to be toyed with in this manner. They were all foolishly underestimating him.
She sprang up, thanking the gentlemen for their visit.
Unhurriedly, Trace rose, hat in hand, brushing away some invisible lint from the crown. He stood beside her shoulder, suddenly inscrutable, and quietly quizzed her. “Tell me Lizzy, do you still play chess?”
She looked up, surprised that he’d remembered. “Not since our last game.”
“Ah, then we must have a rematch. I can’t recall who won the last time.”
“Gudgeon. You know full well, I did.”
The corner of his mouth curved up speculatively. “Did you? I could have sworn it was I.”