“I don’t like this, Jimmy …”
“No, nor I …”
“We are not too far from the posting house listed in the guide—what say you we make tracks there right now and put up for the night?” Arthur suggested and added, “No sense trying to stand and fight—we can’t be certain how many highwaymen there are.”
“Aye … agreed.”
A moment later they had spurred their horses forward, leaving dust behind them.
Off the road, concealed by a spray of evergreens, two grizzled and weather-beaten men, men who could be bought, were crouched on their knees, but they weren’t spying at that moment.
Each of these men looked at death straight on. The barrel of a gun—one for each of them—was all that they could see and understand. One of these men pleaded, “Please, sir … we was only doing whot we were told …”
“And what were you told to do?”
That same man answered because the man beside him had been reduced to blubbering something about having needed the money and children to feed. He grimaced at his cohort and answered feebly, “We … we ’ad little choice … we works for our living, we does and—”
“I’ll ask one more time,” the darkly clad, dust-covered gentleman interjected, “and if you don’t answer me to my satisfaction, I will save King, Regent, and Country the time and trouble of executing you—by doing it myself.”
“Ye can’t shoot us in cold blood?”
“Oh, but I can, and I will, and I have no fear of reprisal—you appear to be no more than the worst of common highwaymen. There is no doubt I would be honored for removing a dangerous nuisance from the road. Now speak you and live to see another day.”
“It was his lordship, it was …” Jenkins said. “I be no more than his groom, but he told me to ’ire someone and for us to follow young Henshaw. We sent him word that Henshaw visited the tens, but he told us to start with to make certain one way or another that we didn’t let young Henshaw pay the entrance fee for Derby … no matter what we had to do to stop him.”
“By his lordship, you mean Lord Omsbury?”
“Aye, aye, but he’ll kill me if he knows that I spoke of it to anyone …”
“Then you mus
t obviously not return to the Isle but seek employment elsewhere. I shall make it easy for you.” The tall Corinthian threw them a leather pouch. “Take this purse, and make certain he doesn’t find you.” A warning glittered in the gaze he cast upon them. “Don’t return to the Isle of Wight, for if you do and he doesn’t kill you, I will.”
The two men nodded their agreement in vigorous style, and the Corinthian bade them be off. Well, well, he thought, this was turning out to be not only an ugly business, but one that was damned threatening as well!
*
Elizabeth was just returning from her afternoon walk when Omsbury came storming out of the house—still seething from his encounter with Jewelene. He stopped, stared hard at her, and said, “You seem a woman of sense … why don’t you try and talk to your cousin and make her see that a marriage with me is what will save her and her family?”
“I am certain, my lord, that it would not do anything of the kind, and therefore I cannot have such a talk with her,” Elizabeth said firmly.
“No? What, do you think Ben Clay will save this family? Is that who she is holding out for? It won’t serve—for Clay has eyes for only one woman, a tart of a Frenchwoman who runs his faro table! So even if she thinks Ben can come up with the money to save his precious Silver Heart, he belongs not to her but to Babette!”
Elizabeth’s hand went involuntarily to her heart. It wasn’t true. What a horrid man this Omsbury was, to be sure. It couldn’t be true. Why would he say such a thing to her? He didn’t even know that she … that she and Ben …
He seemed satisfied with her reaction, mumbled something she couldn’t hear, and stomped off to get his horse, which was tethered at the nearby hitching post.
She watched him go and felt as though the beautiful blue sky had suddenly turned black. Lizzie’s heart took a beating, and her mind could not find the logic to save it. He couldn’t have made all that up, could he? There must be a Babette. There must be fire where there was smoke.
She turned from him, squared her shoulders, and then all the strength she was trying to call upon to save her breaking heart vanished. A sob escaped her, and with her fist to her lips, she ran into the house and up the stairs.
*
Some hours later, Omsbury sat meditatively in his library wing chair. From where he sat he had a majestic view of his rear courtyard and the sea beyond. He was by nature a town fellow, given to excesses, and though he had a rather strong feeling for his heritage, he was too selfish to allow honor to stand in the way of what he wanted. Honor had become an abstract. He was rich, and therefore he thought himself above such philosophies.
Matters were not running smoothly, and in fact, had taken a very sharp turn for the worse. Somehow, instead of enthralling Jewelene with his many charms, he had gained her very obvious dislike. This was something unexpected. Women were forever after him. He was titled, he was wealthy, and he knew himself to be a handsome man.
What then had gone wrong? This was not how he had wanted to win her. However, he meant to have her. He had decided some months ago that she had to be his. Initially he had thought he could easily win her over. All that was no longer on the table.