Home > Unmasked by her Lover(9)

Unmasked by her Lover(9)
Author: Mary Lancaster

Harry gave a tiny shrug, clearly agreeing that some of the truth had to be told.

“Coincidence,” Meg said lightly. “We, too, are en route to Calvert Court. Lady Calvert is my sister.”

“Then, that is perfect!” Mrs. Garrow exclaimed.

“Not quite,” Meg said with a rueful smile. “I would crave your discretion.”

“Discretion?” The lady’s eyes widened, then narrowed, gleaming. “I sense an intrigue.”

“No intrigue,” Harry said steadily. “I am a friend of the family, escorting Lady Meg to her sister.”

“Ah. You are not married at all, are you?” Mrs. Garrow sounded amused and not remotely shocked. “I thought not. It is merely a sop to the proprieties for the innkeeper’s benefit.”

“Exactly,” Meg said, relieved by her quick understanding if not by the speculative look in the other woman’s eyes as they rested on Harry. “And I’m afraid there is more. You find me arriving, but in fact, we would like it known that I have already been at Calvert Court for at least two days.”

“Of course, I know nothing to the contrary,” Mrs. Garrow said at once. “I merely picked you up in the drive because you were fatigued after a long walk about the countryside. Only won’t others at the Court know differently?”

“Not necessarily,” Harry said lazily. “Meg and Lady Calvert are twins.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Garrow wisely.

But Meg had latched on to a much more salient point. Frowning, she said, “What others at the Court? Drat, the girl! Please tell me Martha is not holding a party?”

“Actually,” Harry said, pausing with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, “now you mention it, Robert did say something about a party. I wasn’t really listening since I had no intention of going.”

“According to our invitation,” Mrs. Garrow said, “they are expecting guests from today for as much as two weeks, until the ball on the eighteenth.”

“Perhaps it’s just the thing we need,” Harry said to Meg. “Half the ton will know that you have been with Martha all this time. With Mrs. Garrow’s discretion.”

“Oh, I owe you a great deal more than that,” Mrs. Garrow insisted. “Indeed, I rely on your discretion to cover the nature of my husband’s…indisposition. And, in fact, to cover the oddity of my appearing without him. Though, of course, I would not expect you to lie to your sister.”

“There would be no point,” Meg said frankly. “She would know in an instant.”

“But clearly, we may help each other,” Harry said, holding Mrs. Garrow’s gaze. Some understanding seemed to pass between them, excluding Meg, which irritated her far more than it should.

Mrs. Garrow inclined her head. “Of course, we may. It is the perfect solution for all of us.”

*

“Who is she?” Meg asked bluntly fifteen minutes later. Having left Mrs. Garrow and Basil to refresh themselves in her chamber, she had flitted back to the parlor to discover Harry gazing out of the window.

“I have no idea,” Harry said, “but you shouldn’t trust her.”

“We already have,” Meg pointed out.

He shrugged. “We didn’t have a choice since she is going to the same place, but don’t tell her more than you need to.”

“You don’t like her?” Meg said, surprised.

“She is charming. I don’t like where she keeps popping up, and I most certainly don’t care for her husband.”

“No indeed, he is a terrible brute. Imagine being tied to him and trying to protect her child. It’s unthinkable.”

“It would be,” Harry agreed. “Only I doubt somehow she is tied to him.”

Meg’s lips twitched involuntarily. “You mean they are not married either?”

“They might be,” he conceded. “But I doubt she feels compelled to stay with him. If she is with him now, there is a reason.”

Meg frowned. “Why do you think that?”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Because I always suspected she was a spy.”

*

The rest of the journey to Calvert Court, after they rejoined the main road and changed horses, promised to be both quick and pleasant. The carriage was well sprung and comfortable, and Mrs. Garrow amusing company.

Meg enjoyed playing with Basil. Harry joined in the games, introducing Basil to thumb wars, which caused a huge amount of hilarity, especially when Meg showed Basil how to defeat Harry’s much larger thumb with guile.

And then the unthinkable happened.

The coach slowed suddenly, swaying alarmingly as the horses screamed and tried to rear amidst a deluge of shouts. In the racket, three words penetrated with absolute clarity.

“Stand and deliver!”

Meg stared at Harry with widening eyes. He was already reaching for the pistol in the corner pocket of the carriage when the door was wrenched open, and a masked man pointed a cocked pistol straight at him.

“Don’t,” he snarled, and Harry lowered his hand. “Down you come, all o’ you. Quickly! The gent first.”

Harry complied, his gaze steady on the gunman’s eyes.

“Isn’t the man funny, Basil?” Aline murmured, her arm around her son as she rose to alight. “He’s playing a trick on us, just like a real highwayman.”

“He’s just like…” the child marveled but was cut off by his mother’s swinging him down to the ground.

As Meg scrambled after them, she saw that a second masked ruffian stood at the horses’ heads, covering the coachman, who sat with his arms above his head. Both robbers wore thick, enveloping, and muddy overcoats that must have been swelteringly hot in the summer sunshine. And both had wide-brimmed hats and mufflers pulled up over their mouths.

Perhaps it had all happened too quickly for real fear to have set in. Meg felt more indignant, and her concern was mainly for the child, along with a nagging worry that Harry would do something dangerous.

But whatever his inner fury, it seemed Harry would do nothing to endanger his companions. His movements were slow, his unreadable gaze steady.

“Turn out your coat,” the first footpad growled at Harry. After pocketing the coins and the worn, leather purse that Harry produced, the robber was clearly unsatisfied, for he stepped closer and, with his pistol in one hand, went through Harry’s pockets himself, even feeling inside his coat for inner hiding places.

Harry bore it without twitching a muscle. He only let his gaze flicker occasionally from the highwayman’s to Meg and Mrs. Garrow. Basil, wide-eyed and grinning, still seemed to think it was a game of his mother’s devising.

Grunting, the robber snatched Meg’s reticule, grabbed the money within, and dropped it to the ground. “Gew-gaws,” he flung at Mrs. Garrow, pointing with his pistol at her earrings.

“They’re paste,” she said, although already removing the first.

“Just hand them over.” The highwayman stuffed them in his overcoat pocket, too. Then, keeping the pistol steadily aimed, he produced a wicked-looking knife and stepped back a few paces to cut the straps binding Harry’s valise to the back of the coach. Presumably, Mrs. Garrow’s bags on the roof looked too daunting to retrieve.

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