Shannon Drake - Beguiled

Ally was roused from her meditations when she was slammed from one side to the other. She struggled to find her seat once again, and then held on for dear life. She wasn’t afraid, just puzzled.

Was Shelby worried that the protesters who had filled the village square might be coming after them? That couldn’t be. Surely he knew that frightened farmers and country shopkeepers would offer no real threat. Especially not when there were such illustrious men as Sir Harrington, Sir Cunningham and Lord Wittburg there to assure them.

So why was Shelby suddenly driving like a maniac?

She frowned, scrambling for balance, and realized that the deaths that had brought on the fear and frenzy in the village were certainly frightening enough. Two men murdered, public figures whose views opposed the Crown and who had pushed for an end to the monarchy. The deaths were terrible, and the times in general were hard. The poor queen, Victoria, aging and still so sad; Prince Edward taking on more and more duties; the threat of war in South Africa again…naturally, people were distraught. For many, poverty and ignorance superceded the amazing progress that Victoria’s reign had brought in the fields of education and medicine. Workers were protected now, as they had never been before. There were those who protested the allowance given the Royal House. Those who felt that the royals did not do enough to warrant the money spent on the upkeep of their many properties and lavish lifestyle. England had a prime minister and a Parliament, and many felt that should be enough.

With a sharp thunk, a wheel went into a pothole, and she nearly hit the ceiling. What was going on? Shelby wasn’t the type to be easily alarmed. He wouldn’t be frightened by law-abiding protesters. Then again, the protesters were not the ones actually causing the tremendous unease in the streets and the press at the moment. That unease could be laid at the feet of those trying to inflame the crowd by making people believe that the monarchy was behind the murders of those politicians who were speaking out against them. There were far too many people willing to believe that the Crown was silently behind the murders.

She knew from her studies that anti-monarchists were not new to English politics, and she even understood, at least to some degree, why such a movement had come to the forefront again now. Despite Queen Victoria’s determination to bring abstinence and goodness back to the Crown, her children, including her heir, had behaved scandalously. Back in the days of Jack the Ripper, there had even been a theory that her grandson, Prince Albert Victor, was the murderer. Since that day, a very vocal faction of anti-monarchists had not hesitated to step forward. These current murders, said by many to be the monarchy’s attempt to quell that faction, had brought the political fever to such a rabid pitch that many of the country’s sanest politicians were warning that there must be compromise and temperance, or there would be civil war.

Ally had never met the queen, but from all she had seen and heard, she couldn’t believe that the woman who had brought such progress to her empire and still mourned a husband lost decades ago could be guilty of such horror.

But for all her knowledge of history and politics, she realized, she still had no idea why the carriage was racing so terrifyingly fast.

Suddenly, with a jerk, the carriage began to slow.

Surely, she thought, this could have nothing to do with the furor going on because two men, two politicians and writers who had viciously slandered the queen, had been found dead, their throats slit. Or with the distraught people in the streets, bearing their signs to protest the queen and Prince Edward. No, the cause of this had to be quite different, and if so…

If so, she knew the answer.

They moved slower, the horses walking now, not galloping. She heard the sound of a gunshot, and froze. There was shouting from nearby; then she heard Shelby calling hoarsely in return, but she couldn’t understand his words.

“Stop the carriage!” a deep, authoritative voice thundered.

Tense, knowing that they were nowhere near the castle, Ally leaned toward the window, pulled back the drapery and looked out.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and it was then that icy rivulets of fear at last snaked through her system.

She had been right.

There was a rider right by her side, a man seated upon a great black stallion, clad in a black coat, hat and mask. Other riders shifted restlessly behind him.

The highwayman!

She had never dreamed that such a thing could happen in her humdrum life. As a devotee to several newspapers, she’d read about this man and his accomplices. In an age when more and more automobiles were finding their way onto the roads, they were being threatened by a highwayman on horseback.

He hadn’t killed anyone, she reminded herself. In fact, some were comparing him to Robin Hood. No one seemed quite able to say just which poor people he was giving to, although shortly after the Earl of Warren had been held up, churches in the East End had suddenly been offered large sums to feed and clothe their flocks.

The highwayman had been stopping carriages for the past several months, and had stolen several things here and there, items of sentimental value, that had mysteriously made their way back to their owners. A thief, but not a murderer….

In fact, he had begun his depredations just after the first murder had taken place. As if the country had not had enough to worry about.

The wheels ground to a halt; she heard the whinnying protest of the horses, drawn up so short. And then she heard the coachman’s words.

“My man, you’ll not be harming the lass. You’ll be shooting me first.”

Dear Shelby. Her bulky champion and guardian for as long as she could remember. He would protect her to his dying breath.

And because of Shelby, she found courage.

She threw open the carriage door and called out to him. “Shelby, we’ll risk no lives for the likes of this thief and his brigands. Whatever the fellow wants, we will give it to him and be on our way.”

The highwayman reined in his great black steed and dismounted in an agile leap. His accomplices remained seated upon their horses.

“Who else is in that carriage?” he demanded.

“No one,” she said.

He clearly didn’t believe her. Striding to the open door, he reached in, seeking no permission. His hands landed upon her waist, and she was lifted unceremoniously from the elegant carriage and set upon the ground. The man apparently believed there must be some hidden compartment within, for he disappeared into the carriage, then jumped out to stand beside her.

“Who are you, and what are you doing, traveling alone on the road?” he demanded. His face was hidden by a black satin eye mask, but he had dark hair, pulled back in a queue at his nape. He wore a wool cape, and his riding boots reached his knees.

At first she was shaking, but she was not going to be cowed. If he meant to change his methods and kill her, he would do so one way or the other. Therefore, she would go down fighting. She would not grovel. He was a thief, a brigand, a wretched excuse for a human being.

“You are nothing but riffraff,” she informed him, “and I don’t see why my travel arrangements should be any of your business.”

“Miss!” Shelby protested, afraid for her.

The highwayman nodded toward one of his men—also masked and dressed in black, a color that meant camouflage in the night—who approached Shelby as the coachman tried to ease a hand toward his pistol.

“Don’t do it,” the first man warned softly. “No harm will come to you—or the lass.”

Ally wondered if it was the word “lass,” coming from a man who had no idea of her accomplishments, that both irritated her and gave her such great courage. She was always dismissed as “the lass.” Everyone was always doing what they considered best for her. Her accomplishments were applauded, yet her future seemed to belong to everyone but her. Thanks to her privileged upbringing, she knew Latin, French and Italian, geography, history and literature. She could play the piano much more than competently, sing due to the tutelage of Madame D’Arpe, dance because of Monsieur Lonville, and ride as well as any woman living, she was certain, despite an effort to remain humble. She was also very aware that women were beginning to take their places in many previously forbidden arenas; helping to form society and, indeed, the world. She was going to make her mark on the world. Somehow.