Twenty-Two
Hampstead Heath, March 1817
Sari rubbed her gloved but frozen hands together as she and George hid among the beeches lining the London road. It was past midnight, and even as she watched the limp leaves were turning crisp with frost. She wondered once again what on earth had convinced her that highway robbery was a good idea. Madness was the only reasonable explanation for resorting to such extreme measures, no matter how desperate they had become.
It was partially George’s fault. As children, she and her brother had been captivated by his tales of the robber gangs on the Heath and he had taught them both how to ride and shoot, much to her parents’ chagrin. As she had stared at the last few copper coins in their deflated purse, the Heath had seemed a viable means of escaping debt and starvation. But now, as George stood by her side in the dark, looking as defeated as she felt, but showing the same loyal doggedness that had kept him by her family’s side, she knew she could not do this.
She was just opening her mouth to speak when she heard it—a distant rumble, separating into the staccato of hooves and the uneven rattle of wheels. George gave a quick nod and swung into his saddle as if mere days rather than twenty years had passed since his last raid. Sari scrambled into hers, her heart jerking unevenly and her body alert. This was it; there was no turning back. When the carriage was close enough for them to see the mist rising from the horses’ breath, George dug his heels into his mare’s flanks, and Sari urged her horse after him, just as they had practised.
‘Stand and deliver,’ George called out as Sari’s horse skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. The coachman, finding himself staring straight down the silvery rim of a pistol, pulled hard on the reins. The four horses twisted and whinnied in protest, but finally the whole steaming, huffing contraption shuddered to a halt barely two yards from her extended pistol.
The back rider diligently jumped off his perch, weapon at the ready, but George clipped him on the head with his musket and the man crumpled. The coachman made a futile grab for his shotgun, but Sari disabled it with a well-aimed shot. With a horrified look at the mangled wood and metal, the coachman raised his hands shakily.
Sari turned her attention to the carriage, moving her mare to cover George. She heard a muffled shriek from inside and smiled grimly. A woman. Hopefully well jewelled. Perhaps this would be their lucky night after all.
* * *
The two inhabitants of the carriage hardly shared Sari’s optimism. Lord Crayle was tired and the tedious social rituals at the Stanton-Hills’ ball had reminded him why he tried to avoid such events as much as possible. Unfortunately, his sister Alicia’s debut in society required his occasional attendance. The last thing he felt like dealing with at the moment was footpads. It was sheer ill luck that these particular footpads had chosen that night, that road and their carriage. He had spent a third of his life getting shot at by the French and would have been happy to remain on the right side of firearms for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, fate apparently had other ideas. His only consolation was that at least he was better equipped to handle this unpleasant situation than Alicia and her usual chaperon, Lady Montvale.
‘Do something, Michael,’ Alicia squeaked from the corner of the carriage to where she had shrunk at the explosion of the shot.
Michael sighed. The blinds were drawn, but he had little doubt the momentary silence would soon be rudely interrupted.
‘What precisely do you suggest I do, Allie?’
‘I don’t know. You always think of something.’
That last statement was a depressing truth. As head of the large Alistair family he had indeed always ‘thought of something’; as major in the Ninety-Fifth Rifles during the Peninsular War he had always ‘thought of something’; and now as advisor to the government and one of the founders of the Institute aimed at preventing foreign intrigue on British soil he always ‘thought of something’.
‘There is no need for heroics, Allie,’ he said reassuringly, reaching over and giving her hand a squeeze. ‘I had rather hand over my purse than get into a shooting match, especially with you in the carriage.’
‘But, Mama’s brooch! I would never forgive myself if they took it.’
He groaned inwardly as he registered the brooch pinned to her lace of her bodice. It had been their mother’s favourite ornament and the thought of some greasy footpad wrenching the delicate and very ancient Celtic cross apart for its emeralds and diamonds was repugnant.
‘What the devil did you wear that for?’ he said impatiently even as he moved into action. He tugged off his greatcoat, tossed it in an ungainly pile on the seat facing him, and plucked a pistol from the coach pocket.
Alicia was about to retort hotly when the door was pulled open and a giant of a man filled the frame, musket in hand.
‘Your valuables, if you please, sir,’ he said in a deep voice.
Michael considered how best to deal with this rather large-looking person.
‘My purse is in my coat.’ He nodded at the lump of cloth on the seat opposite. ‘If you will allow me to reach for it...?’
The giant grunted. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll do that myself. If you’ll sit well back, sir,’ he continued, keeping his musket trained on them.
Michael did not mind in the least. Polite chap, he thought sardonically as the giant cautiously leaned over to reach for the coat, allowing Michael a view of the other rider illuminated by the carriage lamps.
Michael took a deep breath before
