The highwaymans letter, p.2
The Highwayman's Letter, page 2
“Frances,” Joanna said censoriously, shooting a look at the man nearby again. He met eyes with her for a moment, and his lip twitched. The twinkle she had seen before was there again, stronger than ever, and she grimaced.
He pulled a face as if to say, If the shoe fits . . . and Joanna tried to control her lips to prevent a smile.
“You mustn’t say such things,” Joanna said.
Frances shrugged, a mischievous look on her face. “Perhaps not, but I will still be thinking them, so what is the difference? Ah, Ryecombe is finally leaving—Sir Leonard seems to want another word with him, though. Ha! I rather like Sir Leonard at the moment. Perhaps he will exhaust his talk of bees on the earl so that you are not obliged to listen to more of it. Poor Joanna.”
Joanna let out an aggravated breath as she picked up her plate. It would be a long day indeed, but she doubted whether she would be allowed the luxury of a boring day with Frances’s tongue as her companion.
Chapter Two
Reginald Sinclair took the last sip of lemonade left in his cup, watching the two young women walk off with their pastry-laden plates. He chuckled lightly and set his cup down. He didn’t know whom he should be more amused by, the younger woman, Frances, who was apparently determined to marry the Paladin, or the older of the two, who was lightly contemptuous of him. He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the latter—Jo, had he heard her called? Most women swooned over the Paladin.
“Captain! Captain Sinclair!”
Reggie turned toward the voice. Jared Cooper was on the edge of the pitch, motioning him over. Reggie chuckled and shook his head at the appellation. He was captain only of his cricket team, but Cooper insisted on referring to him that way at all times.
“Be there in a moment—Doctor Cooper,” Reggie called back. Cooper shot him an unamused look—he was a surgeon rather than a doctor, and he was frequently obliged to correct people who insisted on calling him the former—then nodded and turned away.
The wickets had all been set in their places, and most of the seats surrounding the pitch were already occupied—by those cheering on the gentlemen’s team, naturally.
Reggie picked up the canvas knapsack at his feet and slung it over his shoulder, searching the surrounding area for somewhere he could hide it. He hadn’t intended to bring it to the match, but when the day had dawned sunny and warm, he hadn’t been able to resist. There was an element of adventure to engaging in his nighttime escapades in the rain, but he was always reticent to dirty his father’s clothing, and he preferred not to worry about waking his aunt and uncle when he crept back into the house with his squeaking boots after they were asleep.
He walked over to the nearest cluster of bushes and, glancing around to ensure no one was paying him any heed, dropped the knapsack between two shrubs. He took a mental note of the position of the plants. It wouldn’t just be unfortunate if he forgot the location of the sack—it could well mean ending the night in gaol.
With swift footsteps, he made his way toward the pitch. The team of gentlemen they would be playing against stood together on the side opposite the laborers, attired in matching clothing Reggie and his teammates couldn’t dream of owning, much less playing a cricket match in—fine, starched cravats, unwrinkled pantaloons, and crisp, white shirts. They laughed and conversed with the ease and confidence only privilege and money could beget.
Reggie tightened his jaw. His team had to win this match.
“Mr. Sinclair, is it not?”
Reggie stopped and turned toward Lord Ryecombe, manufacturing a smile. “Yes, my lord.”
How the man had any doubt about his surname was beyond Reggie. This cricket match was an annual tradition, always hosted by Lord Ryecombe, and Reggie had been captain of the worker’s team for the past three years. It was only to be expected of a man as arrogant as Ryecombe, though. The men on the team of laborers were nothing to him. It was a wonder he let them on his property at all.
“I am told that you are the captain,” Ryecombe said.
Reggie nodded. Just as I always am.
“Sinclair.” Lord Ryecombe studied him for a moment, as though experiencing a glimmer of recognition. “Your father sought to be a banker at one time, did he not?”
Reggie’s muscles went taut at the reference to his father. Lord Ryecombe’s choice of words—sought to be—might have been calculated to offend. He wouldn’t allow the earl to see his offense, though. “He was a banker, my lord. In Bath.”
“Met an unfortunate end, didn’t he? A shame, that. If things had gone differently, you might have been playing for my team today.”
Reggie could find nothing civil to respond to this—hearing it said aloud by Lord Ryecombe irritated him to no end, despite the fact that Reggie had had the same thought. He forced a smile, though, wondering if the man before him was the very reason his father had met an unfortunate end, as the earl so mildly chose to phrase it. The man responsible was somewhere out there, and Reggie couldn’t help looking askance at all the gentlemen in attendance today for that reason.
Lord Ryecombe’s gaze slipped past Reggie to the workers behind him, readying themselves to play. “I hope you will communicate to your teammates that, though only one of the teams here lays claim to the title of gentlemen, I expect the comportment of all involved in the match today to be above reproach.”
Beneath his calm façade, Reggie’s blood boiled. This was precisely why he was here today—and precisely why he had brought his knapsack along with him. He would have victory on the pitch today if it was the last thing he did. And it would be followed by victories on the road, as well, against people like Lord Ryecombe. Reggie would have given much to waylay his lordship’s carriage—to frighten the man senseless.
Reggie gave an ironic nod. “I will do my best to help them understand that, my lord, though I believe last year it was your team who received the majority of penalties for conduct unbefitting. If you will excuse me, sir.” He bowed and strode toward the pitch, forcing his jaw to loosen, for it was starting to ache.
Gathering the other players around him, he set his hand on the shoulders of his fellow laborers, letting his gaze fall on each man individually. He knew Cooper best, but all of them were men he respected. On his right was Philip Jenkins, who bred the finest horses in Somerset, and on his left, Michael Cavinder—a budding artist who, Reggie suspected, had as little liking for Ryecombe as Reggie had. Continuing around the circle, there were farmers, a blacksmith, a baker, a carpenter, and a mason. Fine men, even if they were less fortunate in circumstance than the men they would play against.
“My friends,” Reggie said, “today is a rare opportunity. It is not every day we have the chance to meet these men as equals—to look into their eyes squarely and hold our heads high.”
“Or hurtle a ball at their heads,” Cavinder said with a wink.
The men all chuckled, including Reggie, though he tried to do it grudgingly.
“I want only fair play,” he said as the laughter died down. “My point is that on this pitch”—he looked around—“all advantages are cast aside, and we can prove ourselves—we can force those people out there to acknowledge that we are their equals, their superiors even, in at least one way. We will win today. And we will give the other team and the spectators here no reason to doubt that we deserved it.”
The men’s smiles faded into more serious expressions as they all nodded.
“Go on, then,” Reggie said with a smile. “No reason to delay the victory.”
The men clapped one another on the back and took their places on the pitch. Reggie sought out Lord Ryecombe, whom he found in whispering consultation with an umpire. The latter was nodding at whatever he was being told.
Reggie sighed resignedly. No doubt the earl was making his wishes known. The umpire belonged to the gentlemen’s set, after all. Just one more obstacle stacked against Reggie and his team.
He searched the crowd of spectators, most of whom were sitting, though some had been forced to stand due to lack of seats. Most of those standing were the few supporters of the laborer team who had been able to attend. Taking the better part of a day for something like a cricket match was a privilege only the gentry were able to easily afford. Reggie was already feeling guilty for his absence at the post office, but his uncle had assured him they would manage without him.
His eyes settled on the older of the two young women who had been at the refreshment table—Jo. Her bonnet cast a shadow over her face, making her brows seem all the darker, but a few honey gold ringlets peeked out below her bonnet.
He knew a silly desire to prove himself to her. She had said nothing about him, of course—her only acknowledgement of him had been a few glances and a commiserating grimace. But her words about the Paladin had been enough to both amuse and pique him.
He took his place on the pitch, well aware that Lord Ryecombe had situated himself so the umpire to whom he had been speaking was in his line of sight.
Reggie’s assumptions proved to be true. The umpires showed a subtle but obvious preference for the other team, to the point that Reggie even saw one or two of the gentlemen frown at their judgments. Most of them, however, seemed to agree—quite vocally—with the umpires’ calls, and Lord Ryecombe looked as pleased as punch.
When Reggie’s team began their turn at bat, though, their skill and determination was quickly apparent, and there was only so much the umpires could do to stymie the lessening disparity between the scores without causing an uproar amongst players and spectators alike.
By the time it was Reggie’s turn at bat, the laborer team had inched forward into the lead and he was itching for his chance to prove his own and his teammates’ merit. He took the bat in hand, letting his fingers grip the smooth wood and adjust to a comfortable position. It was a fine bat, and he released his hold to take a closer look. Steele and Son was branded near the handle, and he made a mental note to compliment the carver on the fineness of his work. Whatever the arrogance of the gentlemen’s team, they wouldn’t be able to engage in such sport without laborers like Steele.
Reggie took his position as batsman, holding the bat low and keeping his eyes on the bowler, a tall and spindly man Reggie recognized as a Bath resident. The man kept his eyes on Reggie and, in a sequence of quick motions, bowled the ball toward Reggie, who adjusted his bat in preparation then swung it at the fast-approaching ball. With a large whack, it sailed into the air.
There was a crying out, and a chair tipped over in the direction the ball had gone. Reggie’s eyes widened as a number of women screamed.
“Is he injured?” someone asked as more people rose from their chairs.
The man nearest the fallen chair bent over and assisted Lord Ryecombe up from the ground, but the earl rocked back and forth, hands over his mouth.
Reggie set down the bat and hurried toward them. He hadn’t hit the earl intentionally, but perhaps his dislike of the man had been channeled through the bat and into the ball.
“Who hurt him?” cried out a woman who hadn’t ceased talking to the woman next to her for more than five seconds at a time since the match started.
“Is there a physician?” someone asked urgently.
“I am a doctor.” Cooper pushed through the crowd of people surrounding Lord Ryecombe, who pulled his hands away from his face long enough to reveal a set of blazing eyes and a bloody, swollen lip.
“I am more than well, Cooper,” the earl said testily as he covered his mouth again. “Continue with the match!” he commanded in a garbled voice.
“Forgive me, sir,” replied Cooper, “but I must insist that you allow me to see to the wound, if only to ensure nothing worse comes of it.”
Lord Ryecombe tried to swat him away. “You are thimply trying to throw the game.”
Reggie ducked his head and bit his lip to prevent the smile threatening to betray him at the man’s sudden lisping speech. Now that he was confident the earl had suffered no serious injury, he could find a bit of humor and satisfaction in the situation. Perhaps now Lord Ryecombe would reconsider maintaining such a close proximity to the umpires—or attempting to interfere with the outcome of the match.
“Upon my honor, he’ll pay for thith!”
Reggie had no trouble identifying himself as the he Lord Ryecombe referred to. How the earl intended to make Reggie pay, Reggie didn’t know, but the earl’s words removed any intention of Reggie’s to apologize.
“Play on!” Lord Ryecombe said. “I demand the game go on.”
Reggie turned away and moved back through the crowds toward the pitch. Lord Ryecombe clearly thought the gentlemen would still win the match.
Not if Reggie had anything to say about things.
“Well, he did not trip, after all, but I, for one, shan’t complain about the outcome.”
“Frances!”
Reggie turned to find the young women from the refreshment tent but a few feet away.
“Not such a boring day, after all,” Frances said, seemingly immune to her sister’s chastisement. “Now, if only we can persuade Father against staying for dinner. Though, hearing Lord Ryecombe lisp his way through the conversation has a certain allure, I admit.” She met eyes with Reggie, and they narrowed for a moment, then her mouth drew into a smile. “It was you!” She gave a small curtsy. “My compliments on your skill with a cricket bat, sir. May your success continue and bring you victory.”
“Excuse my sister,” Jo said, pulling the younger girl by the arm. “It is best to disregard everything she says.”
“You do not wish me victory, then?” Reggie asked, unable to help himself.
She blinked, and her sister laughed. “I imagine my wishes have very little to do with it.”
“Nonsense, Jo,” her sister said. “You said not two minutes ago that you were praying for the laborers to win—and you agreed with me that they have the advantage in appearance.”
Jo’s eyes widened, and she sent Reggie a glance that was half-apology, half-request for sympathy as she gave a slight, stiff nod and pulled her sister away.
Reggie chuckled, watching them another moment as Jo seemed to give her sister an earful, then he made his way back to the pitch, more determined than ever for a victory.
Chapter Three
Reggie secured his black wig and peered through the leaves that obscured the road from his view as he set a cocked hat atop his head. There was no one on the road just now, but the sun was nearing the horizon, and its softening light made little yellow halos around everything. The majority of those at the match had already passed by, and Reggie had let them go unmolested. He preferred to do things in the dark—and certainly not when a second carriage was likely to come upon him mid-theft. There was an inn, too, not far down the road, and when he chose a carriage to waylay, it would certainly be one that had already passed that establishment. He would not make it so easy for them to call for a constable.
The victory at Briarwood had thrilled him and his teammates, but the euphoria had been fleeting. When the time had come to take his leave, Reggie had seen Lord Ryecombe directing his servants to prepare dinner for a select number of guests, and it had thrown cold water over the fire of the victory. The laborers might have beaten the gentlemen at cricket, but in every other way that mattered, they were on the losing team. One match could not make up for all the inequity, and it was that thought which had solidified his intention to go out on the road when dark fell—to gain another type of victory over these people with far more money, privilege, and power than they merited.
Reggie’s horse, a liver chestnut mare he had dubbed Reckoning, grazed contentedly on the tall grass surrounding them, and Reggie admired her for a moment, taking out the lemon tart he had brought along with him from the match and taking a bite. He and Reckoning had been on many an adventure together in the past few months. He wasn’t certain how much longer they could manage to continue as they were, but he was confident that there was time left to them. Public opinion was still decidedly in their favor, and Reggie would do what he could to ensure that continued.
Finishing off the tart, he looked down at the ensemble he wore to ensure everything was in order. It was strange to see it in the light of day; he usually waited until dark had fallen to change his attire. He looked like a man transported from three decades ago. From the curls of his black wig and his ruffled shirtfront and sleeves to the quizzing glass chain hanging from his neck—everything he wore had belonged to his father. It was equal parts homage and disguise, and if Reggie had favored his father more, the people he waylaid might have thought themselves facing Joseph Sinclair himself, come back from the dead to haunt them. It was fitting that he should have his revenge upon the set of people responsible for his father’s demise while wearing his clothing.
Of course, Reggie didn’t know whether any of the people he had stolen from over the past few months had personally participated in his father’s unjust fate, but there was little to choose amongst those privileged with power and wealth—they protected their own at all costs. Reggie suspected that was why he had managed to garner so much favor amongst the public—he wore fine clothing, he spoke properly, and he acted with chivalry. If he had acted like a run-of-the-mill ruffian, his victims would have had no compunction in sending the constable after him.
He looked up and toward the road, wondering who he would meet tonight. Somewhere out there was the man primarily responsible for what had happened to his father, and if there was any justice in the world, Reggie would come upon his carriage one of these nights. He would never know for certain, of course, for his aunt and uncle refused to tell him the man’s name.
Jaw tight, he set his own folded and grass-streaked clothes into the knapsack and pulled out the last remaining items: a black mask with strings hanging from both sides and a pistol. He had never had occasion to use the second item, and he trusted tonight would be no different. It was a tool meant for defense and nothing else.
