The Prince of Midnight

  S.T. lifted his sword.

  “Stand to!” he roared, and drove it into the lantern, shattering glass and plunging everything in darkness. He spurred his horse down the bank, shouldering into the offside wheeler to slow it, and then grabbed in the pitch black for the leader’s rein with one gloved hand. In the bruising tangle, the driver was shouting and S.T.’s own horse was attempting to plunge right past the team without his restraining hand on the reins. In desperation he threw his weight back and down in the saddle as he hauled on the leader’s rein, hoping against hope he had a well-trained mount.

  It worked. Whether by training or a desire to stay with the other horses, his mount thudded to a halt as the team did. The coachman’s whip cracked, stinging S.T.’s arm and cheek. He grunted, lashing out instinctively with his sword arm. He couldn’t see, but he felt the thong curl around his wrist above his glove. His body reacted before his mind formulated the plan: with a quick jerk, he sent the whip flying into the night.

  He groped for his reins and legged his horse around in front of the leaders. “Stand to!” he yelled again. “I’ve a pistol primed and ready!”

  This was a blatant lie, but safe enough in the ink-black circumstances. Someone inside the coach had lighted a taper, which cast just enough glow to show him the coachman’s silhouette frozen on the box and the equally immobile outline of a footman perched up behind. S.T. had thought someone might produce a blunderbuss, which was why he’d stayed close to the team for cover, but the men seemed unwilling to risk such a move.

  A sudden silence descended, with only the metallic jingle of the harness to break it.

  “Very good,” S.T. said, in a congratulatory tone. He urged his mount back up onto the bank, careful to avoid even the dimmest glow of light.

  “Come down off the box,” he said to the driver. He watched as the coachman dropped the reins and slowly obeyed. “Get inside. Your footman, too.”

  A low sobbing broke out in the interior of the coach.

  S.T. bent a little as the driver opened the door. He caught sight of a white-faced couple of middle age and a young woman with her face bent into her hands before the taper was snuffed.

  “Light it again,” he said. “I don’t want to kill your servants. If they stay where I can’t see them, I will.”

  The sobbing increased. After a little shuffle, the taper flickered again. The servants climbed inside. S.T. sat leaning on the pommel of his saddle, studying his huddled victims.

  They were clearly returning home from some party. Diamonds flashed at the neck and wrist of the younger woman while she bent her head into her palms. The man wore a fine watch fob and huge ruby stickpin; his wife had a set of matching rubies in her hair and draped around her plump neck. They weren’t driving far; they’d never have risked such jewelry with so little protection on a ride of any distance.

  He nearly let them go. There was no reason—no justice to take, no downtrodden soul to reimburse. But the young woman lifted her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks; she was crying as if her heart would break, and he thought of Leigh suddenly—who never wept.

  “Bring me the diamonds,” he said.

  She let out a wail of despair and bent over, shaking her head.

  “Coachman,” he said. “Take them from her.”

  “No!” She scrambled back, her hand at her throat. “Thief!” she cried. “Horrid thief!”

  “Give them up, Jane,” the older woman said in a low voice. She fumbled at her own necklace. “For God’s sake, give him all of this jewelry—’tis nothing but stones.”

  “I only want the diamonds,” S.T. said. “Keep your rubies, madame. I compliment you on your wisdom.”

  “You’re only going to take my diamonds?” the girl cried. “Oh why? That’s not fair!”

  “Do you care so much for stones, my lady?” He tilted his head. “Were they a gift? A lover’s token, perhaps?”

  “Yes!” she said, staring blindly toward the sound of his voice. “Have mercy.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No—my fiancé—”

  “What’s his name?”

  She hesitated, just a beat. “Mr. Smith,” she said wildly. “John Smith.”

  He chuckled. “Pretty feeble, m’love. I find I’m not in a romantic mood tonight. Bring ’em here.”

  She shrieked and pushed at the coachman as he reached toward her. S.T. spurred his horse right up to the door, staying above it on the bank. He extended his sword with a shift of his wrist, palm downward, and then slowly turned it until the point came up into the open door. He held the blade there, allowing the dim light to slide up it and down.

  “Diamonds aren’t such a terrible thing to lose, my lady,” he said softly.

  She stared at the sword, and broke into sobs again. He waited silently. After a few moments, she fumbled at the clasp. He saw what she was about and shifted suddenly, catching the necklace on his blade as she threw the diamonds toward the door.

  He lifted the tip and let the jewels slide down to the hilt. “Très charitable, mademoiselle.”

  With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the necklace into the air and caught it in his other hand. Then he drove his heels in, sending his horse in a lunge forward and a great bounding leap off the bank. He bent his face into the stinging flare of its mane and let it carry him at full gallop into the dark.

  The horse sprinted for a spell, and then, having no idea it was now a fugitive from the king’s law, began to slow. S.T. allowed the pace to ease to a canter and then a trot. Jogging along alone, he sheathed his sword and slipped the necklace inside his glove. He set his back, and his mount obediently dropped to a walk. It shied a little as Nemo loped up behind them, the sound of his panting loud in the quiet night.

  S.T. halted the horse and sat considering.

  He frowned pensively as he lengthened the stirrups to his own measure and took them up.

  Slowly, a smile of awful mischief spread across his face. He couldn’t stop himself. He turned the horse around and began to post leisurely back toward the scene of his crime.

  He halted frequently and turned his head, listening intently. Long before he heard anything, he could feel his mount’s head come up alertly. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew the horse’s ears were pricked toward the sound and scent of its erstwhile companions. He allowed his mount to walk slowly ahead, until finally he caught the furious voices and sharp slam of a coach door.

  Knowing his own imperfections, he judged that the coach must be quite close, though it sounded a good distance away to his attenuated hearing. He held up his fist, chewing on his glove and grinning. When he detected the sound of the coachman’s bark and the rumble of the wheels and hooves, he set his horse along, following his agitated victims at an innocent distance all the way to the town gate at Rye, delighting in the farce of it.

  When he was close enough to see a few late lanterns burning in the cottages at the edge of town outside the old walls, S.T. turned off into a sidetrack and threaded his way through the empty alleys to the gate he and Leigh had entered that morning. The brewer’s dray he recalled was still there, loaded with empty kegs. He stopped his horse and leaned over, opening taps experimentally until he found one with a few dregs left in it. Having anointed his neck cloth with the unmistakable aroma of stale beer, he began to lean heavily on his horse’s mane and sing a drunken little song.

  By the time he reached the stable yard of the Mermaid, he was so sloshed that he lost his stirrups as he tried to dismount and fell off, hanging with his arms around his patient horse’s neck. His feet slipped out from under him as he swayed, and he landed with a gusty whoof at the feet of a stable boy.

  Nemo whined and licked his face.

  “Oops,” he mumbled, staring up from his back at the ostler. “Los’ m’ reins, shir. Gi’ me back m’ reins, will-ya?”

  “Yes sir,” the boy said. “But this ain’t yer horse, sir.” S.T. rolled onto his elbow, pushing Nemo away. “Yes, i’tis. Jus’ got off it.?
??

  “No, it ain’t. Belongs to Mr. Piper, sir.”

  “Pi-Pi…” S.T. dropped his head back on the pavement. “Dunno th’ shap.”

  “Well, ye took his horse, sir, right enough.”

  “Lis’n,” S.T. said. “Lis’n here—you got somethin’ for a man t’drink?” He sighed deeply. “M’wife don’t like me.”

  The ostler grinned. “Yes sir, Mr. Mainland. They got punch an’ beer and an’ anythin’ ye want inside.”

  S.T. held up his arm. “Fine thing, when a man’s… bloody… wife… don’ like him. Damn fine thing, I sh-ay. Calls me ‘Toad,’ does she?” He waved his hand slowly back and forth in the air, staring at it. “Wha’ d’ye think o’ that, hmmm? Bloody… bitch.”

  “Aye, Mr. Maitland. Look here-we’re gonna take ye inside now.” The young ostler grabbed S.T.’s arm at the same time another groom grabbed the other. Together, they hauled him to his feet. He hung heavily on the shoulder of the nearest.

  “Eggstra oats,” he mumbled, and gripped the ostler’s arm. He put his face against the stable boy’s neck and fumbled for his purse. “Rub ’im down, you hear? Good ol’ horse. An’ give him a’ egg… eggstra measure. Here—thas f’ you, m’ fine fellow.” He put the whole purse in the ostler’s hand. “Take whatever ye want.”

  “Yes sir. But he ain’t yer horse, I’m sorry, sir.”

  S.T. lifted his head. “Yesh he is.”

  “No, he ain’t, sir.”

  S.T. stared blearily at the animal in question. “Yesh he is. Best ol’ horse I ever… had.”

  “’E ain’t yours, Mr. Maitland.”

  S.T. pushed himself off the stable boy and swung around to face him, with both hands on the youth’s shoulders. “How d’ye… know he ain’t m’ horse?” he asked earnestly. “How d’you know?”

  “Ye don’t have a horse, sir.”

  S.T. considered that. He stared into the ostler’s face. swaying slightly. “I ’us ridin’ him, washt I?”

  “Aye, ye were ridin’ ’im right enough. Took ’im without even a by your leave, sir. Put us all in dustup, ye did. Rode right off in the dark on Mr. Piper’s horse so fast we didn’t even know which way to go after.”

  “Did?” S.T. hiccuped and frowned. He closed his eyes. “Must’a been…He reeled, and put his arms around the ostler. “Must’a been…”

  He groaned into the ostler’s ear, breathing hard.

  … drunk,” he proclaimed, and slid down into a senseless heap on the ground.

  Leigh started up at the heavy pounding on her door. She’d been listening to the thudding commotion in the corridor outside, expecting it to pass by. After a long evening of trying to soothe the hapless Mr. Piper, making endless promises of restitution and agreeing wholeheartedly with his every muttered curse, she opened the door with considerable trepidation.

  The sight that met her eyes did nothing to reassure her. Behind the landlord, who carried a hat and a damp cloak over his arm, two puffing stable boys held the Seigneur hung between them. The one in front dropped his feet, and the one in back tried to haul him up by his armpits. He mumbled unintelligibly, sliding back down to the floor.

  She closed her eyes, able to smell the alcohol from inside the door. “For God’s sake.” With a furious shift of her skirts, she stood back. “Bring him in,” she snapped. The ostlers picked him up again and waddled forward with their burden swaying between them. Nemo slipped past them and jumped onto the bed. They shouldered the limp body up onto the mattress beside the wolf, and then the younger of the two put the Seigneur’s purse on his chest. ’E said to take what we wished, mum-but I don’t think maybe he might mean it in th’ mornin’.”

  The Seigneur held out his arm, and let it drop, hanging off the side of the bed. “Give ish—” he muttered, and lifted his arm again, groping with his gloved hand at the purse. He spilled Rye banknotes all over his fine velvet coat, and closed his fingers around a thick roll. “Vela good… fellow… He held out the notes toward Leigh. “Give ish-plenty… madam.”

  She plucked the money from his slack fingers. “Good God—where did all this come from?”

  The landlord smiled amiably, hanging the hat and cloak in the wardrobe. “I advanced him a bit from the till this evening, ’ere he could make a call at the money shop. ’Tis all in order, Mrs. Maitland. Would you like me to send someone to—ah—ready him for bed?”

  “No,” she said, and began to rummage in the purse. “He can sleep in his boots, for all I care.”

  “Fishteen,” the Seigneur mumbled. “Fishteen… pounds. Fine fellow.” He lifted his lashes. “Shtole his horse.”

  She blew out an explosive breath. “You besotted ass.” He started to giggle. “Fishteen pa—pounds… madam!”

  She pressed a half crown apiece into the stable boys’ hands.

  The Seigneur rolled onto his side, still giggling. He listed an instant at the edge of the bed, and then fell over with a crash. He lay on the floor, glaring fuzzily at her. “Gish ’im fishteen… y’silly bitch.”

  “Oh, certainly, you drunken cod’s head.” She turned to the first ostler and counted out the extraordinary fortune of fifteen pounds in a loud voice. “You may split it and retire in luxury,” she snapped, and looked over her shoulder. “Satisfied?”

  The Seigneur didn’t answer. His eyes had closed. One hand twitched, and he emitted a soft snoring sound.

  Leigh looked up at the landlord. “That will be all,” she said with magnificent stiffness.

  “Certainly, madam.” He hardly cracked a smile as he made a deep bow. He turned away and shepherded the ostlers out of the room. She heard them break into whoops before they were halfway down the stairs.

  She put her hands over her eyes and lifted her face toward the ceiling. “God, how I hate you!” she cried. “Impossible beast! Why did you come back at all?”

  “I had a mind to finish what you started,” said a soft, lucid, and perfectly distinct voice.

  She jumped back, dropping her hands and staring down at him.

  He pushed up on his elbow and lifted a finger to his lips. “Don’t screech, if you please,” he murmured.

  It was almost as startling as seeing a corpse rise up and speak. She stood with her hand over her breast, her heart pounding.

  He hiked himself to his feet, quite steadily, and motioned Nemo off the bed.

  “What are you about?” she hissed.

  He pulled off his neck cloth, sniffed at the linen and grimaced. “Alas! I smell like the parlor carpet in Mother Minerva’s bawdy house.”

  “For the love of God-where have you been? What’s the meaning of this?”

  He tossed the offending fabric on the floor and reached out to catch her elbow in one gloved hand. He drew her to his side and bent his head near her ear. “Why, ’tis a gift, ma petit chérie. His voice was low and mocking. Turning over his hand, he slipped a finger inside his glove and drew out necklace that flashed and shimmered in the candlelight. “You didn’t care for the expense of the first one,” he said against her ear. “So I’ve brought you another… with a price more to your taste.”

  The magnificent jewels dangled, shedding prisms of diamond light.

  She closed her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said softly.

  “What think you, my lady?” His breath caressed her throat. “Have I pleased you at last? I was told it was a lover’s bauble, worthy of a lady’s tears.” He lifted his hand and traced his forefinger in a curve beneath her eyelashes, as if to brush away a drop. “Will you weep for me?”

  “All too soon, I’m afraid,” she whispered. The glove felt hot and supple, heated by his hand. The suspended stones grazed her skin. “When you hang for this.”

  “Oh, no,” he murmured. “Have a little faith.” He passed his other hand beneath the nape of her neck and spread his gloved fingers on her cheek, pressing her to turn her face toward him. “Weep for delight.” He smiled darkly and kissed the corer of her mouth. “Ma perle. Ma lumière. Ma belle vie. Weep because I’v
e made you happy.”

  “You have not made me happy.” She bit her lip and turned her face away. “You’ve made me afraid.”

  His hand tightened, drawing her back. She resisted, but he had somehow caught control of the moment. His suppressed energy seemed to inflame the quiet room. She couldn’t defend herself; couldn’t find the antagonism amid her dismay. He moved behind her, pulling the gauzy lace fichu from her bodice, baring her shoulders.

  “I don’t want it,” she exclaimed. “I’ll not have it.”

  He slipped the necklace around her and clasped it. His hands cupped her throat, slid upward, holding her steady as he kissed the nape of her neck. “Do you spurn the Seigneur’s token, sweet?” he breathed. “’Tis a gift. An emblem of my passion for you.” His touch compelled her; his soft voice smoldered with an uncanny force. “Take pleasure in it with me.”

  “No. Remove it.” She put her hands to her mouth.

  “Non, non, petite chou—why should I do such a foolish thing? I brought it for you. I love you. I wish to see you admired and beautiful. But you tremble, chérie. He caressed her leisurely, nibbling and playing, touching her with his tongue. “Of what are you afraid?”

  You, she thought. What have you done?

  What are you doing to me?

  The heat of his kisses went through her in little jets of sensation. She bent her head. He caught her around the waist and pressed his mouth to the slope of her bared shoulder. His hands pulled her back into him.

  She bit hard on her lip. “You’re a reckless fool.”

  He shook his head against her throat. “My absurd chick! I am the Seigneur du Minuit, am I not? To delight you I would hazard any peril.”

  “They’ll catch you.” she whispered. He laughed softly. “Not this time.” He began to work at the ribbons that laced the front of her bodice. “And why should you care, cold heart? I thought you wished me well gone.”

  She held herself stiff. ’Tis not your neck that concerns me, but my own,” she said cruelly. “I’ll not swing with you. Not for this.”

  “No—wouldn’t like that. Love me instead.” One by one, without letting go of her, he pulled off his gloves and dropped them. With experienced assurance, his fingers worked open her embroidered stomacher. Al the time, he kissed and fondled her, his golden tinged head bent to her shoulder and her throat, his black ribbons trailing down between them. The gown drooped off her arms. He pushed it down and pulled the shoulder ties and eyelets on her corset free.