hour earlier. She must put as many leagues as possible between herself and her nemesis.
Her plan had gone abysmally wrong. The man in the coach was not supposed to attack her. She was the assailant: she issued the commands and he was meant to deliver. Instead she had found herself temporarily mesmerised by his powerful figure and urged into action only when he’d grabbed her with such paralysing force that she had dropped the gun and fled the scene. Even now her left wrist throbbed sickeningly, and she was barely able to touch the reins without a shudder of pain. She thanked heaven that Red knew her way home and would take her there safely.
Only gradually did she slow her headlong gallop. A thicket of trees appeared in the distance, small but dense, climbing its way up the shallow hillside as though each set of roots was planted atop the trees beneath. Within their branches lay a secret, vital to her plans if she were to accomplish the task she had set herself.
But would she? Tonight had been a disaster and she could not afford another. It was only by the quickest of thinking that she had galloped free, a split-second decision to abandon the pistol and run. If she had not had the forethought to cut the traces first … it did not bear thinking of.
The man would have picked up the gun, she was sure, but he would not know to whom it belonged. It was most unlikely that he would ever trace its owner. And if by the very worst of luck he did, what would he find—a young man left to rot in a verminous London gaol. Certainly no highwayman free and riding the road. Her brother! She could weep when she thought how badly she had let him down. There would be no escape for him now; he would remain, as she had seen him just days ago, thin and ill, surrounded by every kind of dirt and disease.
She slid from the saddle and walked towards a wall of greenery. Coaxing Red forwards, she lifted the intertwined branches one by one to reveal a rough, wooden entrance built into the hillside. She tugged on the iron handle and the door swung smoothly back. She was safe, but, thanks to her bungling, Rupert was still in danger.
Assuming the guise of a highwayman had been a crazy idea. but since her visit to Newgate she had been unable to keep it from her mind. She had been struck by one of Rupert’s fellow prisoners, a giant of a man with shaggy, black bristles and laughing black eyes. He’d smiled at her saucily as the turnkey escorted her to her brother’s miserable cell and she’d been compelled to ask his name.
‘Black Jack Collins,’ the gaoler had said, as though she should know. And then when she’d continued to look blank, he’d added helpfully, ‘A gentleman of the road so called, who’ll hang before the week is out.’
Despite this grim prediction, the image of Black Jack Collins had stayed with her. A gentleman of the road did not sound as brutal as a robber, particularly if the victim was stupidly wealthy and emerged unhurt. If she became a highwayman for just one night, she might rescue her brother. The idea held and she’d thrown herself into the adventure, relieved to be doing something, anything, to aid Rupert. All it would take was one successful theft. She would choose a wealthy traveller, a man who would hardly miss the money he’d be forced to surrender. It wouldn’t be simple, it would need careful devising, but it was possible.
She had bubbled with excitement at the audacity of the plan and been filled with hope for its success. The black suit had been her brother’s, a little baggy, but with Molly’s quick needle, it fitted well enough. Molly’s mother, a chambermaid at the Four Feathers, had found the tricorne at the back of a dusty cupboard, no doubt abandoned long ago by its nefarious owner. And the weapon had been simple—Rupert’s duelling pistols had pride of place on his bedroom wall. She had taken one and prayed that she would not have to use it.
Meticulous planning, but all for nothing! The adventure had started well enough: the coachman had been cowed by the sight of the pistol, his horses obediently still, but the man she had been tipped to rob had not been as obedient. He had not read the same script as she and her wonderful scheme had crumbled before her.
A little ahead and at a point where the narrow stone passage branched in opposite directions, a dimly glowing lamp was being held high in the air. Red gave a gentle whinny at the sight of the waiting figure.
‘Miss Lucy, thank goodness! You’re here at last.’ A young girl rushed forwards. ‘I thought you would be returned an age ago.’
‘There was some trouble, Molly, and I had to take the long way home.’
‘Trouble, miss?’ The maid’s eyes held worry. ‘Then you didn’t …’
‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I have returned with nothing.’
‘But you found the coach—the one Mother told us of?’
‘Yes, I found the coach.’ Her mistress’s voice was faint with weariness. ‘I even brought it to a halt. But its passenger was too strong for me and …’ she stumbled on her words ‘… I was nearly caught.’
The maid took a sharp intake of breath.
‘You must not worry.’ Lucinda gave her a quick hug. ‘Red spirited me from the scene and, as you see, I’m safe and well.’
‘Thank the lord, Miss Lucy, you’re home. I’ve been that anxious. But …’
‘But?’
‘There’s trouble brewing. Your uncle is fair beside himself.’
‘Uncle Francis? What ails him?’ Surely her uncle could not have got wind of this exploit.
‘I don’t rightly know, miss, but he’s been demanding to see you this past hour. I said you were laid down with the headache. But he fell into such a tantrum that I’m afeared he’ll be banging on your door before long and demanding to come in.’
‘Then I must make sure I’m behind it when he arrives,’ her mistress said with a brightness she was far from feeling. And before her maid had turned to lead the horse away, she was racing along the opposite passage, making for the concealed staircase.
She had barely struggled out of the incriminating clothes and into her wrapper before there was a peremptory knock and her uncle strode into the room. She tried to compose her face into one of suffering and hoped that her cheeks were not glowing too pinkly from the night-time gallop. Francis Devereux planted his plump figure firmly by the window embrasure and stared at his niece.
‘I understand from your maid that you have been indisposed. Did you not think to tell me? I waited dinner for at least half an hour.’
She should have thought. Her uncle’s mealtimes were sacrosanct and an attack on his food was an attack on him. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. Molly was busy attending me, else I would have sent her much earlier with a message.’
He harrumphed irritably. ‘I trust her ministrations were successful. You are recovered?’
Lucinda thought she had better be recovered. Even in candlelight, she was looking far too healthy.
‘She brewed me a wonderful concoction of her mother’s—Mrs Tindall is a genius— and since I have rested, the headache has vanished.’
Her uncle’s small blue eyes peered at her short-sightedly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You certainly look well enough and it is most important that you do so.’
He began to pace up and down the room, the wooden floor occasionally creaking beneath his considerable weight. After a few minutes he stopped to face his niece and saw her puzzled expression. ‘I wish you to look your very best.’
As an explanation it fell far short. She was beginning to think that perhaps her uncle had imbibed rather too heavily at dinner when he startled her by saying, ‘In the event it is fortunate that he has not yet arrived—although I must say that I do not understand the delay.’ His tone was pettish and there was a frown on his face. ‘I trust that he will be with us tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Who?’
‘Do you never listen, Lucinda?’
She tried to look contrite, but it was difficult. She had no idea to whom her uncle