Nicola Cornick - Unmasked

“My favorite,” Charles said, with a reminiscent grin, “was the time they kidnapped Annabel Morehead on the way to her wedding. Her father’s face, when he realized that all his scheming to marry her off for money had been in vain!”

“That was richly deserved,” Teague agreed. “And Miss Morehead was extremely grateful.” He looked thoughtfully at Nick. “You will find plenty who do not look kindly upon your plan to capture the Glories, Falconer. Some people see them as popular heroes—or heroines—hereabouts.”

“I doubt that Arkwright’s banker is one of those,” Nick said. “I must go to Skipton in the week and speak with him about the attack a few nights ago.”

“I doubt he will still be Arkwright’s banker after that fiasco,” Charles said. “Edward Arkwright does not condone incompetence in his employees and losing a tenth of his profits would be a heinous sin in his books.”

“Perhaps he should look to his own business practices, then,” Nick said. “He was the one who cheated his workers out of their money, so I understand.”

Teague cocked an inquiring brow. “You sound surprisingly sympathetic to these felons, Falconer,” he said. “Surely Lord Hawkesbury expects you to fulfill his commission with the full weight of the law?”

“I imagine so,” Nick said. “Don’t mistake me, Teague. I do not condone highway robbery or extortion and I do intend to find these criminals.” He drained his brandy glass. “Charles, have you ever been held up on the road?”

“No,” his host said, sounding, Nick thought, slightly disappointed to admit it. “But I keep a pistol in my carriages so I can wing them if they try and attack!”

Nick laughed. “I see. So, gentlemen, is there anything else that we know about the Glories?”

“No,” Teague said.

“They are reputed to meet at one of the hostelries on the Skipton road,” Charles said, after a moment.

“I recall,” Teague said. “The King’s Head, is it not?”

“Either the King’s or Half Moon House,” Charles agreed.

“I will call there,” Nick said, “and see what I may discover. And if we entertain for a moment the idea that the Glories are a band of gently bred females—”

Teague shifted, clearly uncomfortable. Once again, Nick noted it. And wondered.

“Seems preposterous,” Charles muttered. “Can’t see Laura or Faye or Reverend Butler’s wife leading a band of mounted desperadoes.”

“No,” Nick said. “On the other hand there must be others. Does Mrs. Osborne ride?”

Charles and John Teague exchanged a look. “Occasionally,” Charles said after a moment, “but she is a poor horsewoman.”

“Hester rides like a jockey,” Teague said, “but surely you are not suggesting that Cole’s cousin is a highwaywoman, Falconer? That’s outrageous!”

“I am not suggesting anything at the moment,” Nick said, unruffled. “I am merely asking.”

There was an awkward silence. “I’ve sometimes wondered about Mrs. Osborne,” Charles said suddenly.

“Oh, come now, Charles!” Teague had gone a little red in the face. “Just because she made her money in trade!”

“It isn’t that,” Charles said. He, too, had gone a little red. “I know Laura has taken her up and Hester likes her, but…” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

“It is true that she is a little reserved,” Teague said gruffly, “but when one gets to know her…” He took a deep breath. “She has been the truest friend to Hester that one could ever ask for, and to Laura, too, if you would only admit it. Laura is lonely here in the country with you up in Town so often—” Teague stopped and cleared his throat as Charles shot him a less than friendly look. “They have a genuine mutual interest in the horticultural society,” he finished, a little lamely.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Charles snapped.

Nick said nothing. There were interesting undercurrents here, he thought. He had not realized that Charles left his wife in the country when he went up to London to take his seat in the Lords. He wondered why they spent so much time apart. And then there was Teague, who evidently was in love with Hester Berry. His defense of Mari Osborne might well spring from his loyalty to Hester. But what of his discomfort when the Glory Girls were mentioned? It could be that Nick was getting too close in his questions and that Teague knew it. Mari Osborne’s apparent lack of skill as a rider, for example, could be as much an elaborate ruse as her dowdy appearance. Whatever the case, it was clear where Teague’s sympathies lay and that made him a man worth watching, as well.

Nick stood up and stretched. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen, and for the brandy, Charles. If you will excuse me, I will seek my bed. It has been a long day.”

As he went out, Charles was offering John Teague another glass but in Nick’s view Teague’s thoughts did not appear to be on the excellence of his host’s cellar. He was gazing into the distance and the expression in his gray eyes was very bleak indeed.

MARI HAD FOUND a dark corner of the terrace where the honeysuckle twined around a pretty little arbor of her own design. She curled up on the cushioned seat, wrapping her arms around her knees, careless of crushing the silk of her gown. It was a warm night with a gentle breeze from the moors that carried with it the smell of gorse and bracken and, rather more agriculturally, sheep.

When she had walked away from Nick Falconer, her first instinct had been to run and hide until she had the chance to gather her thoughts. She knew, however, that for the sake of her charade, she had to appear utterly unconcerned by their encounter. Accordingly she had gone into the ballroom and had accepted the first offer to dance made to her, which had, unfortunately, been from Lord Henry Cole.

Mari detested Lord Henry. A big, bluff hunting man, he hid a vicious nature under an outward show of bonhomie. He reminded her of Rashleigh in too many ways. For some time now Henry had been pressing her to show him what he referred to as “kindnesses” and what Mari knew to be sexual favors, implying that her bed had been cold too long and he was just the man to fill it. When he had squeezed her in such a disgustingly familiar manner during the dance, she had felt horribly sick, his big, sweaty lustful hands reminding her of Rashleigh’s importunities. She knew that his liberties would only get worse. He seemed inordinately excited by her resistance, the kind of man who saw refusal as a challenge that simply has to be overcome by force.

Mari shuddered. To make matters worse, she knew that Nick Falconer had been watching her every move with that dark, implacable gaze of his. She thought that he had probably been the only one to see Lord Henry touch her, for he had started toward them as though he were about to intervene. He had looked positively thunderous. The realization that he had been coming to her aid made Mari feel very strange. She had felt a compound of relief and security and trust that she had never experienced in her life before. She wanted to throw herself into Nick’s arms and simply soak up the strength and protectiveness of him. It was an instantaneous and inexplicable reaction but more importantly, it was extremely dangerous because of course she could not trust Nicholas Falconer. He was the last man on earth she should allow close to her. He could expose the truth about her. She had the horrible thought that perhaps he was the author of the anonymous letter, the fate that was about to catch up with her.

“I know all about you. I know what you did…”

The panic threatened to overwhelm her, tight bands around her chest, the fluttery wings of a thousand butterflies in her stomach beating frantically to break out. She had been troubled by such attacks on and off since she had run away from Rashleigh. They happened whenever the past loomed too close, whenever it seemed that she could not escape. Because sometimes it seemed that she could never get away, never be free.