then.’ He added, with something like a sigh, ‘We have no theatre in Beringham.’
‘Nor any other entertainment,’ grumbled the farmer. ‘Even the inns ain’t what they was.’
‘But she was closest to the villain,’ put in the farmer’s wife, ignoring her husband. ‘In his arms, she was, and he was makin’ free with her—’
‘I beg your pardon, but it was no such thing,’ declared Betty, bristling in defence of her mistress. ‘He ravished her, quite against her will.’
Charity blushed and shook her head at the bemused constable.
‘He stole a cheap brooch, that is all.’
‘And he kissed her, too!’ cried the farmer’s wife in outraged accents.
‘Very understandable, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ returned the officer of the law, then coloured to the tips of his ears.
‘It means she saw him better than the rest of us,’ said the farmer. ‘Right tall fellow, he was.’
‘Ma’am?’ The constable turned his eyes towards Charity, who shrugged.
‘I would not have said he was that tall. About medium height, I think.’
‘Bigger, surely,’ argued the farmer’s wife. ‘He towered over you!’
Charity remembered it only too well, but she shook her head now.
‘I was cowering a little.’
It was a lie. She had felt no fear in her encounter with the highwayman. There had been anger, yes, and excitement, but she had never felt afraid of him. The farmer’s wife was continuing.
‘A big man, all in black and astride a great black ’oss. And he had right broad shoulders.’
Charity remembered him coming close, the feeling that he was enveloping her in his shadow.
‘His coat was very large,’ she said. ‘It had several capes on the shoulders, which gave the impression of width.’
‘Did you see his face, or his hair—did he wear a wig, perhaps?’
‘He never removed his hat. And he wore a mask, so I could not see his countenance.’
That much was true. She could not even say with any certainty what colour his eyes had been, only that they were very dark and had bored into her, as if he could see into her very soul.
‘His horse, though—that should be easy to find.’ The coachman tapped out his pipe upon the hearth and set about refilling it. ‘It was a stallion, a great dark beast, pure black from mane to hoof.’
‘And he weren’t from around these parts,’ added the guard. ‘Irish, I do reckon.’
‘Aye,’ agreed the farmer. ‘Definitely Irish, no mistaking that brogue.’
Charity said nothing. She had spent her life working with actors and mimics and suspected that lilting Irish accent had been as false as the inflection she had adopted in London to make everyone think she had grown up south of the Thames. The landlord, who had been hovering by all the while, nodded sagely.
‘The Dark Rider. They say he comes from Dublin.’
‘Oh, Lord bless us!’ exclaimed the farmer’s wife, falling back in her chair. No one paid her any heed.
‘Nay, I thought it was Shannon,’ said the coachman, ‘But that’s who I guessed it might be. I’ve never seen him afore, though.’
‘The Dark Rider?’ asked Betty nervously.
‘Aye.’ The landlord nodded. ‘He’s been working the roads around Beringham for a year or so now. Robbed Absalom Keldy and his wife afore Christmas, he did.’
‘And I was told he took fifty guineas off Mr Hutton only last month,’ put in the coachman.
The farmer snorted. ‘Well, he can take what he likes off Hutton, with my blessing. Self-serving old scoundrel that he is!’
‘Aye,’ agreed the landlord, ‘but the Dark Rider’s capricious, see. You never know what he will take. It might be no more than a kiss from a pretty woman, other times it’s a purse.’
‘He always takes the mailbag,’ added the constable, ‘although they turn up again at the roadside after he’s looked through ’em. Searching for money, I dare say, although who’d be foolish enough to send money in a letter, I don’t know.’
The landlord winked at Charity. ‘He’s got the ladies around here all of a pother. They all wants to meet ’im. Many think he’s a gentleman in disguise, kicking up a lark.’
‘Gentleman or no, he’ll be dancing on the gibbet when he’s caught,’ growled the constable. ‘I think that’s all I needs for now, so you can be on your way.’ His unhurried gaze swept over the passengers. ‘You’d best tell me your direction, in case we needs to speak to you again, or to ask you to identify the culprit.’
‘Well, you’ll find us at Broad Ings Farm.’ The farmer’s buxom wife stood up and shook out her skirts. ‘And we’ve paid our fare to the next crossroads, so the quicker we get moving the better.’
‘And you, Mrs Weston?’
Charity spread her hands.
‘I have no idea where I shall be living in Allingford, but you can always find me at the theatre.’
They were ushered back to the coach. The driver was anxious to make up time and they rattled quickly through the darkness to the crossroads, where the farmer and his wife alighted, leaving Charity and her maid with the carriage to themselves.
‘Well, well, what a to-do, mistress! We should have been in Allingford three hours since.’
‘I know, Betty. I hope Hywel has a dinner put aside for us. All this excitement has given me an appetite.’
Betty gave a disapproving sniff.
‘Don’t know how you can be thinking of food when you were ravished by that scoundrel! Still, it couldn’t have been that bad, since you didn’t have to make use of your hatpin, and I know full well that you’ve used it on more than one occasion when an admirer has been a bit too familiar.’
Charity did not reply, but settled back in her corner and closed her eyes. To be truthful, she had not even thought of her hatpin when the highwayman had pulled her close. She had not thought of anything. She had known ladies in the audience to swoon at the sight of a particularly handsome actor, but had always considered them very silly beings. Now she could understand them a little better, for the powerful attraction she had felt for the audacious rascal had made her light-headed, and she had come very close to swooning herself.
Heavens, what was she about?
You are growing old, my girl, she told herself sternly. Old and lonely, if you must needs faint at the attentions of a stranger.
The lights of Allingford interrupted her musings and Charity was grateful to put aside her disturbing thoughts. A servant was waiting to escort them the short distance from the inn to a modest house where they were admitted by a very superior manservant who announced that Mr Jenkin was waiting for Mrs Weston in the parlour. As the servant opened the door she saw a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair standing before the fire. Upon her entrance he came forward to greet her.
‘I was beginning to think you had changed your mind about coming to work for me.’
Laughing, she gave him her hands and pulled him close to kiss his cheek.
‘Not a bit of it, Hywel! And good evening, my dear. We were delayed on the road. A highwayman, no less!’ She turned away to remove her cloak and bonnet so that Hywel would not see her face; he knew her so well he would see in an instant that there was more to the encounter than she was telling him. ‘He is well known