Helen Dickson - A Wayward Woman

Having got what he wanted, without more ado the man took the reins of his horse and leapt into the saddle with the agility of an athlete. Turning about and giving her a farewell salute and a cheeky, knowing wink—a playful, frivolous gesture that infuriated Belle further—he galloped off into the night.

Seething with rage, her heart pounding in her chest, Belle watched the animal speed along, matching the wind over the narrow road. His hooves flashed like quicksilver in a brief spot of light, and his coat glistened as the muscles beneath it rolled and heaved. She did not move or utter a sound until the thief’s muffled laughter and the hoof beats could be heard no more.

Quickly releasing the footmen and the coachman and assured that they had not been molested in any way—while concealing her anger at their incompetence, for to her mind their pistols should have been loaded and cocked in the likelihood of such an event occurring—her face as hard and expressionless as a mask, she ordered them to take their positions on the coach.

Picking up her cloak, quivering with outrage and deeply shock by what had happened—and slightly bewildered, for something about the robbery and the highwayman did not make sense—Belle climbed inside the coach. The consequences of the theft of the jewels were too dreadful to contemplate.

How was she to tell her grandmother? They meant so much to her, not to mention their value. Dear Lord, this was a calamity—a disaster. Her grandmother would be livid, and rightly so. She should not have been wearing them in the first place. Even if the robbery was reported first thing in the morning, the thief would be far away by then so it would be difficult to apprehend him. And if he was apprehended, he would already have disposed of them.

They arrived home without further incident. Not until Belle was in bed did she give free rein to her thoughts. She was relieved her grandmother was still in town and had not been party to the ordeal she had suffered. Grandmother didn’t intend returning until the following afternoon, so she had a reprieve until then. But she would have to be told eventually. There was no way of escaping that.

Tossing and turning and unable to sleep, she went over and over in her mind what had happened. There had been something about the thief that was familiar. But what? It bothered her and she couldn’t shake it off. Then a strangled gasp emitted from her and she shot bolt upright as a multitude of thoughts chased themselves inside her head—a pair of familiar blue eyes glinted down at her as he danced her about the floor. A deep voice tinged with laughter as he lowered his eyes to her neck and said if I want something, I take it.

In the space of five seconds, all these memories collided head on with the reality of what had happened on the road. And something else. The scent the thief wore—the faint smell of his cologne when he had stood directly behind her to remove the necklace—was the same scent that had assailed her earlier, when she had been dancing with Lance Bingham.

Flinging herself out of bed in a tempestuous fury, she paced the carpet, unable to believe what she was thinking, unable to contain it. She remembered the moment when he had stood behind her and caressed her neck, when she had thought … What? What had she thought? That he wanted to touch her, that he desired her?

Oh, fool, fool that she was. Why, that arrogant lord had merely been checking the clasp on the necklace, familiarising himself with it, to make it easier for him to remove. He had set out to use her to get the necklace. Why he should want to eluded her for the moment, but she would find out.

The blackguard! The audacity and the gentlemanly courtesy with which he had demanded that she part with her valuables was astounding. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the thief. The man she had met at Carlton House had turned into the Devil when determination to steal the necklace had removed all semblance of civility from him, frightening her half to death. But he wouldn’t get away with it. Oh, no. She would see to that.

Every nerve in her body clenched against the onslaught of bitter rage. She continued to pace restlessly. After allowing the tide of emotion to carry her to the limit, nature took command of her again and she was strengthened, something of the old courage and force returning. She stewed. She seethed. Never had she been this angry before in her life. She had to decide on what course of action to take, ways she could make him pay for this outrage, how she could retrieve the stolen necklace before her grandmother returned—and she would, even if she expired in the attempt. Nothing could stop her doing anything once her mind was made up.

But beneath it all was the hurt when she remembered the tender words Lord Bingham had spoken to her on their parting at Carlton House, words she now knew to be empty, without meaning. How could he have said all those things to her and then do what he did—terrify and threaten her at the point of a gun?

The man was cold and heartless and without a shred of decency. She wanted to hurt him, to hurt him badly, and she would find a way to do it without letting him see how much he had hurt her—without letting him see how much she cared.

But why had he taken the necklace? She was utterly bewildered by his actions. And why did bad feeling exist between the Ainsleys and the Binghams? Whatever it was, she suspected it had something to do with the past.

Belle had always been self-willed, energetic and passionate, with a fierce and undisciplined temper, but her charm, her wit and her beauty had more than made up for the deficiencies in her character. She hadn’t a bad bone in her body, was just proud and spirited, so determined to have her own way that she had always been prepared to plough straight through any hurdle that stood in her path—just as she was about to do now.

But what was she to say to her grandmother?

As it turned out she was granted a welcome reprieve. The following morning a note was delivered to the house from Lady Channing, informing her that the countess had taken a turn for the worse and that the doctor advised her it would be unwise for her to leave her bed to make the journey to Hampstead until she was feeling better.

Later that day, with a groom in attendance, Belle rode from Hampstead to visit her grandmother. She did indeed look very ill when Lady Channing showed her to her room—too ill to be told about the theft of the necklace. Before returning to Hampstead, she joined a large gathering of fashionable people riding in Hyde Park, struck forcibly by the noise and colour and movement and wanting to feel a part of it. It was a glorious day, hot and sunny. Roses bloomed profusely and she could hear a band playing a jolly tune.

Serene and elegant atop her horse, she looked striking and stood out in her scarlet riding habit. Daisy had brushed her hair up on her head in an intricate arrangement of glossy curls, upon which a matching hat sat at a jaunty angle. She was greeted and stopped to speak to those who recognised her, who expressed their distress when told the dowager countess was unwell.

Suddenly she felt a small frisson of alarm as all her senses became heightened. Ahead of her a man atop a dark brown stallion had stopped to speak to an acquaintance. She did not need to see his face to know his identity. He was dressed in a tan jacket and buff-coloured breeches. He sported a tall hat and a snowy white cravat fitted snug about his throat.

As he turned slightly, and not wanting to be found looking at him, Belle averted her gaze, but not before she had seen a world of feelings flash across his set face—surprise, disbelief, admiration—but only for an instant.

Lance nudged his horse forwards, eager to introduce Rowland to this vision in scarlet.