Captain Rakehell (3 page)

“My mask from Madame Sophia’s!” Teddy cried, jumping up and down and trying to pluck it out of Lesley’s waistcoat. “Put it on! Quickly!”

In an effort to calm his brother and Lucifer, who were both just this side of apoplexy, Earnshaw took the leathers in his teeth, drew out the mask and tied it around his head. As he did so, Teddy backed away from the stallion, drew back his arm and slapped him as hard as he could on the rump.

Snorting and laying back his ears, Lucifer sprang half-up on his hind legs, then shot out of the trees at a full gallop. The Runners crossing the glade gave way as the stallion thundered toward them flinging clods of turf from under his hooves.

As he turned to duck into the trees, Teddy cast a last glance at Lucifer galloping his brother to safety. At the sight of Lesley rising from his saddle to stand in his stirrups, he began to laugh. And then he began to run.

Chapter Three

Warm as the early evening had been, by midnight it was decidedly chilly in the upper reaches of the beech tree. Andrew gallantly gave Amanda his coat, but the thin, satin-lined evening jacket was little protection against the damp in the thick fog gathering at the foot of the old tree.

“I’ve been thinking,” Amanda whispered, her teeth chattering in her brother’s ear. “I could stay here and keep watch on Jack and Harry while you go for help.”

“No, Mandy,” Andrew whispered sternly. “I will not leave you unprotected.”

“I’ll be perfectly safe up here—”

“No,” Andrew repeated. “It’ll be soon now, I think. If I were the thief, I’d strike while the guests were dining.”

Almost as he spoke the words, the music drifting from the house stopped, signaling that supper had been announced. A rustle in the shrubbery and a few guttural words exchanged by Harry and Jack confirmed the veracity of Andrew’s statement.

“We should climb lower,” Amanda whispered, “so we can see their faces.”

“We’ll do no such thing.”

“But how will we be able to identify them?”

“Identifying them is not our responsibility.”

“Then whose is it, I should like to know?”

“‘Ere now, what’s that?” Jack growled, the bushes snapping loudly. “You ‘ear somethin’, ‘Arry?”

Andrew froze, but Amanda didn’t. Seizing the opportunity, she caught an overhead branch and used it to swing herself around the trunk to the opposite side of the tree. Too late, Andrew heard the telltale whisper of her satin skirts. He twisted on the limb to catch her, just as the last torn inch of the hem of her gown slipped out of his reach.

“There it is a’gin,” Jack said, his tone low and wary. “You ‘ear anythin’, ‘Arry?”

“Jus’ th’ wind, Jack, murmurin’ in that big ol’ tree.”

“Th’ wind ain’t blowin’, ya idget.”

“It ain’t?”

A thump and howl came from the bushes, as Andrew inched around the trunk and saw Amanda, standing sure-footed on a thick limb several feet below him. As he watched her, she leaned cautiously forward and caught the trailing end of her gown. Drawing the skirt up between her legs, she tucked it into her waist sash.

Andrew groaned silently. He’d seen his sister secure her skirts thus hundreds of times, usually before flinging herself astraddle onto her pony, climbing into the loft of the barn at Hampton Hall, or wading into the creek. Heaven only knew what she was preparing for now, but whatever it was, it was his duty—as it always had been—to save her from herself. Sighing, he climbed after her.

The scrape of his foot on a branch above her alerted Amanda to his approach. Flinging a glare at him, she swung herself one limb lower. Andrew held up a hand to reassure her, then wedged himself into the crotch she’d just vacated.

“No lower,” he hissed, and she nodded.

Gauging they were still a good fifteen feet or so from the steaming ground—and hoping it would be a safe enough distance—Andrew turned his attention to the Duchess of Braxton’s mansion. He heard Jack and Harry’s accomplice before he saw him, and realized as the figure stepped into the backwash of the lights blazing from the house, that the dull clanking he’d heard came from the sack thrown over the man’s left shoulder. He realized, too, that the angle of his approach would bring him directly beneath the beech tree, where Amanda’s slippers and the lantern still lay on the ground. Andrew caught and held his breath.

So did Amanda, but for an entirely different reason. Noble as she thought Andy was for putting her safety above apprehending these criminals, she had no intention of allowing them to escape. She, too, had realized that the thief hurrying across the garden must pass directly beneath them to reach the gate in the wall where Harry and Jack awaited him. She intended to drop out of the tree onto his head, which, of course, would give Andy no choice but to jump after her to save her from these desperate men.

Not that she thought they were—at least not Jack and Harry—but she’d chosen not to argue the point with Andy. If she’d learned nothing else in the three luckless Seasons since her come out, Amanda had learned that gentlemen didn’t like being made fools of by females.

Almost running now, the sack flung over his shoulder making an awful racket, the thief drew within ten feet of the beech tree. Her heart pounding and her palms nervously damp, Amanda gripped the limb upon which she crouched.

“Hallo, Smythe!” Jack called from the shrubbery. “S’that you?”

“Who else you expectin’? Prinney ‘imself?” Smythe replied, as he drew nearer to Amanda and she wiggled closer to the edge of the limb.

Just as she gathered herself to jump, Smythe tripped and fell face-first on the spongy, muddy grass. The sack spilled off his shoulder, slid down the short slope of ground to the garden wall, and came to rest there with a clunk.

What luck! He’s already down, Amanda thought, all I have to do is hold him there. But as she let go of the limb to jump, Andrew caught a handful of his coat and held her fast.

“Andy!” She gasped, trying to twist herself free. “We can catch them if—”

Slipping his right arm up and under hers, Andrew clapped his hand over his sister’s mouth, and wrapped his left arm half around the beech trunk. “We could also catch a knife in the ribs,” he hissed in her ear.

“‘Ere, Smythe!” Jack called. “What’s ‘appened?”

“I tripped on somethin’,” Smythe replied, feeling the ground around him as he reared back on his heels. “Git over ‘ere wi’ th’ lamp.”

There was a flare of light in the bushes, which faded suddenly—probably as Jack slipped a hood over the lantern, Andrew guessed—then the scrape of heavy boots on stone. Two figures, dimly outlined in the half light, clambered over the wall. The larger one bent to retrieve the sack, flung it with a clank over his shoulder, then joined his two fellows under the tree.

“What’s this?” Smythe said, as he got to his feet and stepped closer to the shrouded lantern. “Lift th’ shade a bit, Jack.”

Andrew groaned as a thin beam of light fell on Amanda’s muddy shoe, and the gold braid trim on the sleeve of the peacock blue Braxton livery worn by Smythe. But that’s all he saw, for the light was too feeble to illuminate the thieves’ faces.

“A ladies’ slipper!” Jack exclaimed. “What you s ‘pose it’s doin’ ‘ere?”

Harry stepped closer to have a look, stumbled, and bumped into Jack.

“‘Arry, you idget!”

“Look, Jack!” Harry bent down and came up  with Amanda’s other shoe. “‘Ere’s th’ other ‘un!”

“Gimme that.” Smythe snatched it away from him and held the slippers close to the lantern. “It’s a matched pair, all right. One could be a cast off, er lost, but the two of ‘em …”

Slowly, he raised his face to the beech tree. It was too dark to make out his features, and Andrew, who tightened his grip on Amanda as she began to tremble, prayed it was also too dark for Smythe to see them.

“Jack, lift th’ shade a bit more ‘n shine it up this tree.”

“Righto,” he said, tugging at the shrouded lantern. “Demmed thing’s stuck!” He grunted, the globe rattling and the beam of light wobbling as he tried to loosen the hood.

“
Now
, Mandy,” Andrew whispered urgently. “Crawl as far as you can out this limb, then jump and run to the house!”

Shoving her away from him, he dove out of the beech tree. His elbow caught Jack in the chin as he landed, and knocked him topsy-turvy down the slope. The lantern rolled out of his grasp, broke with a splintering crash, and set fire to the pile of dead leaves blown up against the wall. Rolling clear of the small blaze, Jack came to his feet and started slipping his way back up the slope.

“Andy!” Amanda screamed at her brother, who’d turned toward Smythe with raised fists. “Behind you!”

As Andrew whirled to meet the charge, Harry dropped the sack and rushed to help Jack. He lost his footing on the wet grass, however, and crashed to the ground taking Jack with him. They rolled back down the hill in a tangle, Jack howling as his left arm was flung into the burning leaves.

“Andy! Watch out!” Amanda shrieked, as her brother turned once more toward Smythe, and spun squarely into the thief’s doubled right fist.

The blow snapped his neck and staggered him against the beech tree. Amanda heard the back of his head strike the trunk with a thud, and she shrieked again as he crumpled and slid slowly to the ground. Over Jack’s pitiful mewling and the slap of Harry’s hands beating at his smoldering sleeve, Amanda heard Smythe chuckle as he stepped beneath the tree and glanced up at her. Though she’d leaned as far over the limb as she dared, the low, smoking fire was too far away to show her more than the sheen of perspiration on his face.

“An’ who might you be, m’lady?”

“Amanda Gilbertson!” she declared fiercely. “Daughter of the Earl of Hampton!”

“Take m’word fer it, m’lady,” Smythe replied, gesturing toward Andy. “Spirited ‘lil thing like you c’n do better ‘an a cove what can’t take a punch.”

“That cove is my brother!”

“Is ‘e now?” Smythe chuckled, as he bent to retrieve the sack Harry had dropped.

Furious at his innuendo, determined to avenge Andy, and certain—at least reasonably so—that Smythe wouldn’t
dare
strike a lady of Quality, Amanda flung back her arms and jumped.

In that same instant, Lucifer came soaring over the garden wall with Captain Earnshaw standing in his stirrups and leaning over his neck. Jack and Harry, who’d put out the fire on Jack’s sleeve and gotten partway to their feet, flung themselves down again, and thereby missed having their necks broken. As the stallion’s hooves touched ground, his shoulder caught Smythe in the back, knocked the sack from his hands and spun him around—just as Amanda came plummeting earthward and swept Captain Earnshaw out of his saddle.

They fell in a heap of swirling, rose-pink satin, the horseman crying out as her little ladyship landed on his chest and began pummeling him with her fists. Mistaking the yelp of pain as a call for reinforcements, Smythe quickly hied himself over the wall and into the darkness beyond. Jack and Harry followed, the sack of loot half spilled and forgotten on the ground behind them.

“Ouch! Damn you! Stop it!”

Grasping her wrists, Earnshaw arched his back and easily reversed their positions. For a moment, until he shook his head, closed his eyes, and opened them again, he thought the fall had more than stunned him—but the heart-shaped, fire-lit face glaring up at him belligerently was still that of a woman. A small and remarkably strong one, he thought ruefully, his jaw still stinging from her blows.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice trembling. “All thieves are cowards or they wouldn’t be thieves.”

“Why on earth would you think me a thief?”

“Although you speak like a gentleman,” she replied, “you are wearing a mask.”

She said it matter-of-factly, but the tremor in her voice had spread to her wrists. They felt quite small and delicate in his hands, her skin as soft as the silk-lined sleeves rolled up her forearms. In the dull glow of the fire, her loosened hair gleamed a deep, burnished red. Dirt smudged her face, her gown, and the too-large man’s evening jacket she wore over it. It struck him then that she hadn’t screamed or swooned or threatened him with either one. And despite her claim to the contrary, her wide, unblinking eyes and the rapid rise and fall of her small bosom told him she was terrified.

“Would my lady believe,” he asked, “that I’ve just come from a masquerade?”

“No. There are no masquerades being held this evening.”

“This particular one,” Earnshaw chuckled, “was not a Society affair.”

She blinked at that, twice, very rapidly, but otherwise held his gaze.

“If you are a gentleman,” she asked, “why are you pinning me to the ground?”

“If you are a lady, why did you jump out of a tree?”

“It is not a short tale,” she replied, her eyes—a deep shade of blue, he thought—luminous in the half dark. “And you are heavy, sir.”

“Your pardon, my lady.”

Reluctantly, Earnshaw rose and helped her to her feet. The top of her head came no higher than the first button of his muddy, ruined waistcoat. He still held her hands, could still feel the warmth of her small body against his.

The fire started by Jack’s lantern had smoldered down to the wet humus at the bottom of the pile. Smoke billowed up the slope, wrapping them in the sharp smell of burned leaves and damp earth. It tickled Amanda’s nose, yet freeing her hands from those of the masked man to rub it never occurred to her.

No gentleman, she reasoned, would ride the streets at night in a mask with a rapier at his side, yet a thief would not have begged her pardon and helped her rise. A gentleman most definitely would not have held her to the ground in such a shockingly intimate fashion, still—

Just then, Andrew groaned and stirred in the leaves beneath the beech tree. Stiffening, the masked man loosed her hands and reached for his rapier.

“It’s all right, he’s my brother,” she said, lifting her skirts and scurrying to his side.

He was still sprawled half against the bole and still unconscious, but he groaned again and coughed in the thickening smoke as Earnshaw dropped to one knee at his feet.

“What happened to him?”