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Version: 2018-10-26
I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Keith, and my wonderful critique partners, Molly, Maureen, Mary, Sinead, Teresa and Jude. My special thanks go to my editor, Joanne Grant, whose skill and patience is gratefully acknowledged.
Sussex, England—May 1811
The anger burning in the Marquess of Beauworth’s throat tasted of bile and bitter regret. While the horses thundered through shadows and moonlit tracts of rolling Sussex landscape, Garrick fought the urge to turn back for London.
He swallowed his ire and the carriage raced on. Home to Beauworth. The place he hated most in the world.
Not even the person closest to him, Duncan Le Clere, understood his hatred of the place. Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself, but lack of knowledge didn’t lessen the tension in his shoulders or the foreboding.
The pain of bruised tendon and bone reminded him of the reason for his return. One by one, he unclenched his fingers, forcibly relaxing his hands in his lap, breathing deeply and slowly, regaining control. He lounged deeper in the corner, stretching his legs along the gap between the seats, a picture of insouciance. After all, the Marquess of Beauworth, idle rake, reckless gambler and bored dandy, had a reputation to uphold.
The carriage swayed violently. He grabbed for the strap beside his head. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.
‘Mon Dieu! What now?’ He let down the window and stuck his head out.
The carriage horses tossed their heads uneasily, their shapes indistinct in the shadow of the high hedges lining the road. The sound of their hard breathing and jingling harnesses cut through the warm stillness. Garrick narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the dark. ‘What do you see, Johnson?’ Probably a puddle. The poor old fellow should have retired years ago.
Something white gleamed eerily in the shadows ahead. A white horse walking in the centre of the road, moonlight slipping luminescent over a dappled coat. At first he saw only the horse. Then another dark shape, a slight figure clutching the bridle. A woman in a black riding habit. Walking alone? Bloody hell. She must be in trouble.
He wrenched open the carriage door, leapt down and started forwards with an offer of help on his lips. The sight of a pair of long-barrelled pistols in her hands, one aimed at his forehead and the other at his servants, stopped him short.
Cold moonlight revealed a black mask covering all but her mouth, while a point-edge cocked hat adorned a curled and powdered peruke. Black lace frothed at her wrists and throat.
‘Good God.’ The exclamation exploded from his lips as recognition struck. Lady Moonlight, the daring cavalier’s lady from Cromwell’s time, forced to take to the High Toby to feed her family. Her exploits were legendary in this part of Sussex as were the sightings of her spirit after she’d hanged.
‘Stand and deliver!’ Her husky voice, tinged with the accent of the dregs of London, echoed off the overarching trees. The grey minced sideways and she checked it with a low murmur.
No ghost this. Merely a common criminal.
Garrick glanced up at the box where Johnson and Dan sat wide-eyed and motionless, apparently taken in by the clever ruse.
‘Hand over yer valuables or the boy is dead meat,’ she called out.
There was a desperate edge to the coarse voice he didn’t like, but the pistols remained steady enough and both were cocked and ready. Damnation, but he wasn’t in the mood for this tonight. A rush of anger roared through his veins, a red haze blurring his vision, his fingers curling into fists.
He inhaled long and slowly.
Control. Anything else and someone less innocent than he would die. Behind her mask her eyes glittered. Courage or fear? Would she shoot an unarmed man?
Dan, fear bleaching his cheeks, rose in his seat. One pistol tracked his movement.
‘Curse it, lad,’ the thief said. ‘Yer want to die?’
Nom d’un nom. Garrick might be prepared to take a chance with his own life, but he would not risk the boy. He, more than anyone, deserved better. ‘Sit down, Dan,’ he ordered.
Scared eyes found Garrick’s face. He nodded encouragement. The boy subsided on to his seat beside the rigid Johnson. Garrick shook his head. ‘Be still, both of you.’
Clearly realising Garrick’s dilemma, the little witch kept one pistol fixed on Dan as she slipped the other into a saddle-holster beside a cunningly wrought sword sling. The intricate hilt protruding from the scabbard fitted her costume well enough. His lip curled. He’d like to see her try to best him with a sword.
She tossed her hat on the ground near his feet. ‘Throw yer trinkets in there.’
A shimmer of light surrounded her face and body as she moved. A ghostly light. Was he going mad? Then he saw the sequins. They covered her mask and reflected moonlight from her coat and waistcoat. The little wretch looked like a reveller at a masquerade, and for such a deadly purpose.
An elegant twist of wrist and flutter of black lace drew his attention to the upturned hat. ‘I ain’t got all day.’
Garrick bowed with a flourish, acknowledging her impatience with charm and grace. ‘Your wish is my command, milady.’
As he straightened, her full lips curved in a quick smile. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yer too gracious, sir.’
‘Ah, a polite Lady Moonlight.’ He raised a brow. ‘I’m waiting, chérie.’
Her smile fled and oddly he found himself regretting its loss. ‘For what?’ she asked. ‘A bullet in yer brain?’
‘For my kiss. Lady Moonlight always kisses the men she robs if she thinks them handsome.’
‘Just put yer valuables in the ‘at, milord.’ A hint of laughter coloured her nasal voice.
Aware of the astonished gazes of those on the box, he spread his arms in a mock gesture of appeal. ‘Are you saying you find me lacking? How cutting. You break my heart.’
She
