Highwayman Lover

  * * * *

  Charlotte had expected to find Theydon Hall darkened and quiet upon her arrival, and was somewhat surprised to discover lights aglow through the empty windows as she approached. She dismounted while still a long measure from the house, and fettered her roan to a tree, lest the sound of hoofbeats alert whomever was still awake and about inside the house. She did not want Kenley to suspect her presence. He would only avoid her or send her away without so much as hearing her out.

  She had seen the bright alarm apparent on his face that morning. He was frightened, and Charlotte knew she needed to surprise him, to confront him before he had any opportunity to counter her.

  She crossed the expansive front yard by foot, draped in darkness and shadows. She stole toward the house, the parlor windows from which the glow of golden lamplight emanated. She heard the sounds of quiet voices drifting through the empty panes, and she crouched against the wall beneath the window, lifting her head and straining to listen.

  “I cannot do this,” Kenley said from within the parlor. “I cannot do this, Lewis. Please do not ask this of me. I cannot.”

  “You must,” Charlotte heard Lewis say, his voice gentle to soothe his cousin. “There is no other way.”

  She heard Kenley utter a hoarse, sharp cry, and the shattering of glass as he hurled a brandy snifter at his mantle. “It is my fault!” he cried. “All my bloody damn fault! Reilly told us if we just let it go, if we kept to ourselves, it would all go away with no one the wiser!

  And now?” His voice grew anguished. “Now she is gone to me. She is gone, Lewis! I have lost her, and I… I cannot breathe for it! I cannot!”

  Charlotte’s breath drew still to hear the pain in his voice. He had told her they could not fall in love in only days, but she had somehow nonetheless. She had, and he had, as well, no matter how he had tried to deny it.

  “I have lost her,” Kenley said, his voice muffled. Charlotte risked a peek into the parlor, peering over the bottom of the windowsill. She saw Lewis embracing Kenley, his back to Charlotte. She saw Kenley’s fingers splayed and hooked with desperation against his cousin’s shoulders as he clutched at Lewis’s coat.

  “It is all my fault,” Kenley said. “No, it is not,” Lewis whispered.

  Kenley jerked away from him, stumbling backward, his brows furrowed, his expression caught between anger and anguish. Charlotte shied back, crouching again lest he see her. “It is my fault!” he shouted. “It is! Reilly told us to let it lie, and I… I had to go to London! I had to go to St. Bartholomew’s and now… !”

  Charlotte’s eyes flew wide, and she gasped sharply. St. Bartholomew’s?

  “I had to think with my bloody heart and not my head, just like Reilly said!” Kenley cried. “I am a fool, Lewis, a rot damn fool trying to impress her. Why? Why did it matter in my head what she thought of it? We were not one and the same in her mind and regard. What was I thinking?”

  “Oh…” Charlotte whispered in stunned realization. Cheadle had not threatened to frame the three friends for the Black Trio robberies—he threatened to expose them. Her mind snapped suddenly to the night of the robbery, to the young highwayman’s quick wit, his sharp retorts and clever rebukes as she had argued with him. How could it have seemed unfamiliar to her when, only days later, Kenley had offered her this same reception? How could she not have realized?

  “It is my fault,” Kenley said again. “You did not see Reilly’s stomach, Lewis, the bruises where that rot bastard beat him. You did not see what they did to him. It is all on my account! I have brought this on us!”

  “Do not say that, Will,” Lewis said, and Charlotte rapped the back of her head firmly against the stone wall as she recoiled in bright, new shock. She gulped for breath, alarmed she would hyperventilate and keel over in a swoon.

  Will? she thought, stricken and stunned. He… he called him Will!

  Her hand darted for her greatcoat, for the left pocket. Her gloved fingertips brushed against the silver snuffbox tucked within, the one with the engraved initials: W.S.

  “William Sutton,” she whispered, her eyes enormous. “Oh… oh, my God…”