Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“Ah, now that is much better,” the highwayman said, grinning widely now. “What good fortune is mine to have stumbled upon two ladies so divine. Here I thought I’d be greeted by a crusty old gentleman.”

Grace stepped to the side, keeping her eyes trained on his face. He did not look like a criminal, or rather, her idea of a criminal. His accent screamed education and breeding, and if he was not recently washed, well, she could not smell it.

“Or perhaps one of those dreadful young toads, stuffed into a waistcoat two sizes too small,” he mused, rubbing his free hand thoughtfully against his chin. “You know the sort, don’t you?” he asked Grace. “Red face, drinks too much, thinks too little.”

And to her great surprise, Grace found herself nodding.

“I thought you would,” he replied. “They’re rather thick on the ground, sadly.”

Grace blinked and just stood there, watching his mouth. It was the only bit of him she could watch, with his mask covering the upper portion of his face. But his lips were so full of movement, so perfectly formed and expressive, that she almost felt she could see him. It was odd. And mesmerizing. And more than a little unsettling.

“Ah, well,” he said, with the same deceptive sigh of ennui Grace had seen Thomas utilize when he wished to change the subject. “I’m sure you ladies realize that this isn’t a social call.” His eyes flicked toward Grace, and he let loose a devilish smile. “Not entirely.”

Grace’s lips parted.

His eyes-what she could see of them through the mask-grew heavy-lidded and seductive.

“I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure,” he murmured. “It’s not often an option, what with all those portly young gentlemen traveling the roads.”

She knew she should gasp, or even spit forth a protest, but the highwayman’s voice was so smooth, like the fine brandy she was occasionally offered at Belgrave. There was a very slight lilt to it, too, attesting to a childhood spent far from Lincolnshire, and Grace felt herself sway, as if she could fall forward, lightly, softly, and land somewhere else. Far, far from here.

Quick as a flash his hand was at her elbow, steadying her. “You’re not going to swoon, are you?” he asked, his fingers offering just the right amount of pressure to keep her on her feet.

Without letting her go.

Grace shook her head. “No,” she said softly.

“You have my heartfelt thanks for that,” he replied. “It would be lovely to catch you, but I’d have to drop my gun, and we couldn’t have that, could we?” He turned to the dowager with a chuckle. “And don’t you go thinking about it. I would be more than happy to catch you as well, but I don’t believe either of you would wish to leave my associates in charge of the firearms.”

It was only then that Grace realized there were three other men. Of course there had to be-he could not have orchestrated this by himself. But the rest of them had been so silent, choosing to remain in the shadows.

And she had not been able to take her eyes off their leader.

“Has our driver been harmed?” Grace asked, mortified that she was only now thinking of his welfare. Neither he nor the footman who had served as an outrider were anywhere in sight.

“Nothing that a spot of love and tenderness won’t cure,” the highwayman assured her. “Is he married?”

What was he talking about? “I-I don’t think so,” Grace replied.

“Send him to the public house, then. There is a rather buxom maid there who-Ah, but what am I thinking? I am among ladies.” He chuckled. “Warm broth, then, and perhaps a cold compress. And then after that, a day off to find that spot of love and tenderness. The other fellow, by the way”-he flicked his head toward a nearby cluster of trees-“is over there. Perfectly unharmed, I assure you, although he might find his bindings tighter than he prefers.”

Grace flushed, and she turned to the dowager, amazed that she wasn’t giving the highwayman a dressing down for such lewd talk. But the dowager was still as pale as sheets, and she was staring at the thief as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Ma’am?” Grace said, instantly taking her hand. It was cold and clammy. And limp. Utterly limp. “Ma’am?”

“What is your name?” the dowager whispered.

“My name?” Grace repeated in horror. Had she suffered an apoplexy? Lost her memory?

“ Your name,” the dowager said with greater force, and it was clear this time that she was addressing the highwayman.

But he only laughed. “I am delighted by the attentions of so lovely a lady, but surely you do not think I would reveal my name during what is almost certainly a hanging offense.”

“I need your name,” the dowager said.

“And I’m afraid that I need your valuables,” he replied. He motioned to the dowager’s hand with a respectful tilt of his head. “That ring, if you will.”

“Please,” the dowager whispered, and Grace’s head snapped around to face her. The dowager rarely said thank you, and she never said please.

“She needs to sit down,” Grace said to the highwayman, because surely the dowager was ill. Her health was excellent, but she was well past seventy and she’d had a shock.

“I don’t need to sit down,” the dowager said sharply, shaking Grace off. She turned back to the highwayman, yanked off her ring, and held it out. He plucked it from her hand, rolling it about in his fingers before depositing it in his pocket.

Grace held silent, watching the exchange, waiting for him to ask for more. But to her surprise, the dowager spoke first.

“I have another reticule in the carriage,” she said-slowly, and with a strange and wholly uncharacteristic deference. “Please allow me to retrieve it.”

“As much as I would like to indulge you,” he said smoothly, “I must decline. For all I know, you’ve two pistols hidden under the seat.”

Grace swallowed, thinking of the jewels.

“And,” he added, his manner growing almost flirtatious, “I can tell you are that most maddening sort of female.” He sighed with dramatic flair. “Capable. Oh, admit it.” He gave the dowager a subversive little smile. “You are an expert rider, a crack shot, and you can recite the complete works of Shakespeare backwards.”

If anything, the dowager grew even more pale at his words.

“Ah, to be twenty years older,” he said with a sigh. “I should not have let you slip away.”

“Please,” the dowager begged. “There is something I must give to you.”

“Now that’s a welcome change of pace,” he remarked. “People so seldom wish to hand things over. It does make one feel unloved.”

Grace reached for the dowager. “Please let me help you,” she insisted. The dowager was not well. She could not be well. She was never humble, and did not beg, and-

“Take her!” the dowager suddenly cried out, grabbing Grace’s arm and thrusting her at the highwayman. “You may hold her hostage, with a gun to the head if you desire. I promise you, I shall return, and I shall do it unarmed.”

Grace swayed and stumbled, the shock of the moment rendering her almost insensible. She fell against the highwayman, and one of his arms came instantly around her. The embrace was strange, almost protective, and she knew that he was as stunned as she.

They both watched as the dowager, without waiting for his acquiescence, climbed quickly into the carriage.

Grace fought to breathe. Her back was pressed up against him, and his large hand rested against her abdomen, the tips of his fingers curling gently around her right hip. He was warm, and she felt hot, and dear heaven above, she had never- never -stood so close to a man.