A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess. Helen Dickson
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and leave me alone.’
He moved round her to stand in front of her, his eyes hooded and seductive. ‘Come now, you don’t mean that.’
With trembling effort Belle collected herself, and, as he stared at her, she drew a deep, ragged breach. ‘She says I must have nothing to do with you. I’m beginning to think she’s right.’
He chuckled softly. ‘Is she afraid I will lead you astray? Is that it, Belle?’
She gave him a level look. ‘I believe she does, but that isn’t the only reason, is it? My sixth sense tells me there is some other reason why she dislikes you.’
‘Your sixth sense does you credit.’
‘So I am right.
He looked at her, his eyes amused, a smile curving his full mouth, and when Belle met his gaze she was struck by the sheer male beauty of him. And then she was struck by something else, very strongly indeed—it shocked her with its violence, a great blow of emotion, emotion for him.
She wasn’t quite sure what it was even, but she acknowledged it—it was startling and unexpected and absolutely new. The evening—the privilege of being at Carlton House, the build up to it, of being with so many people, the music, the laughter, the champagne, all far removed from what she knew—had heightened her emotions, made them raw, even a little reckless and dangerous. She knew quite clearly—they both did, for she could see in his eyes that he acknowledged it too—that this was a new and important thing, only just beginning. And yet she knew she must not accept it, not let it happen. That she must fight it.
Chapter Three
When their coach finally arrived at the front of Carlton House, Belle was glad to climb in. Her feet ached and she was tired and couldn’t wait to get into her bed. She was travelling alone in the protection of the grooms, for her grandmother’s headache had become much worse. She was feeling so poorly that Lady Canning, a close friend, had invited her to spend the night at her house in town. She was expected to return home the following afternoon.
With two armed footmen travelling at the back of the coach, the coachman urged the horses forwards. The Dowager Countess of Harworth took no chances when travelling after dark.
Not only did one have to beware of highwaymen, but discontented soldiers—soldiers once loyal to the country, who had been cashiered from their regiments to eke out a miserable existence in the slums. Many of them took out their spite on the gentry as they travelled the quiet roads after dark to their elegant residences, robbing them of valuables before retreating back into the dark city streets.
A light wind blew, sending heavy rain clouds scudding across the sky, veiling the moon so that it shone through in a pale, diffused glow. The Ainsley conveyance lurched through the London streets and headed north. The house was close to the picturesque suburb of Hampstead. It stood high outside London, where the air was fresher. Beyond the orange glow of the carriage lamps, the trees all around them seemed to have taken on strange, moving shapes.
Suddenly a gunshot sounded ahead of them, startling the occupants of the coach. The coachman was heard to shout, ‘Robbers up ahead.’
Belle leaned out of the window, but could see no assailant, and in an urgent voice ordered the coachman to set the horses to a faster pace. But it was too late. The footmen had no time to load and cock their pistols. There was a sudden movement to the side of them, as if the trees had come to life, and they found themselves confronted by a menacing, ominously cloaked rider who called upon the driver to bring the coach to a halt.
The driver pulled on the brake lever and hauled at the reins to bring the team to a halt. Belle heard a muffled voice ordering the footmen and the coachman to climb down. Belle was beset with alarm. After what seemed like an eternity, but could not have been longer than a minute, the door was pulled open and the muzzle of a pistol appeared in the doorway held by a man in full cape and a tricorn low over his brow.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘If you mean to rob me, I have no money on me.’
‘Step outside, if you please,’ the man said from behind a concealing scarf half-covering his face, his voice low and rough sounding. ‘I will see for myself. I will be on my way when you’ve handed over your valuables. Be kind enough to oblige without causing me any trouble.’
Struggling to gather her wits about her and trying to quell the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, with great indignation, Belle said courageously, ‘I most certainly will not! You’ll get nothing from me, you thieving rogue.’
The pistol was raised, its single black eye settling on Belle where it stared unblinkingly for a long moment. Beneath the threat, even that brave young woman froze, as the man growled, ‘Then I’ll just have to take it. Get out of the coach—if you please, my lady,’ he added with mock sweetness.
With the pistol levelled on her, she knew there was nothing for it but to comply with the thief’s demands. He was ominously calm and there was an air of deadliness about him. Stepping down, she gasped with concern on seeing the footmen and the coachman all bound helplessly together. Unconcerned for her own safety, she turned her wrath on their assailant. The cold fire in her eyes bespoke the fury churning within her. She held herself in tight rein until the rage cooled. What was left was a gnawing wish to see this highway robber at the end of a rope.
‘How dare you do this? Please God you haven’t harmed them. What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded.
The robber scorned the words and would heed no argument. ‘Quiet, lady,’ the tall, shadowy figure rasped.
Belle’s eyes were glued to him. This was not how she had imagined highwaymen to be—fearless cavaliers, carefree, chivalrous, romantic knights, in masks and three-cornered hats, adventurers, ‘Gentleman of the Road’. Reluctant to submit to this footpad’s searching hands, she stepped back and looked around her, considering the idea that she might be able to disappear into the confines of the trees.
He read her thoughts. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he rasped. ‘It would be foolish to think you could get away. You could not escape me if you tried.’ He swaggered closer. ‘What have you got, pretty lady, hidden beneath your cloak? A well-heeled lady like yourself must have something. Show me. Come now,’ he said when she shrank back, ‘it’s not worth dying for, no matter how much your valuables are worth. Are they so concealed that my fingers may have to forage?’
She shook her head, taking another step away from him. ‘Keep away from me. You are nothing but a thieving, unmitigated rogue out for easy money.’
‘True,’ he agreed almost pleasantly. ‘Come now—a bracelet, a brooch, a pretty necklace—a rich lady like yourself will not miss a bauble or two. I must ask you to hurry. I find myself getting impatient and that causes my finger to twitch on the trigger of my pistol.’
When he reached out to her with his free hand, incensed with his boldness and at the same time terrified of what he might do to her, Belle slapped his hand away. ‘Get away from me, you lout.’
He uttered a soft curse. ‘For a wench who has no help at hand, you’re mighty high minded. Do you think you can stand against me with your impudence? You’ll come to heel if I kill you first.’
‘I’ll shred your hand if you dare to touch me. I swear I will. Leave me alone,’ she cried, her body trembling with fear. ‘You have no right to touch me.’
‘Stop your blustering.’ In the blink of an eye he had reached out and flicked open the frogging securing the front of her cloak, which slid from her shoulders to her feet. Catching the light of the carriage lamps, the necklace sparkled. The man emitted a low whistle of admiration.
‘So, milady, you say you have nothing of value. Those sparklers look pretty expensive to me. Remove it.’ When she made no move to do so, he bowed his head in mock politeness. ‘If you please.’
‘You can go to hell,’ she hissed.
‘I