The Lord of the Highwaymen - Elizabeth Bramwell Page 0,30
a frightened horse, and a series of outraged shouts go up from their pursuers.
Amelia pounded her fist on the ceiling of the carriage and let loose a stream of her favorite expletives, taught to her by the infamous Lady Lade herself.
“And if you don’t stop this carriage this instant and let me deal with these footpads, then you’ll regret the moment you dared to disobey me!” she added for good measure.
The carriage hit a rut in the road, and Amelia was thrown back against the chair. The coachman swore loudly before bringing the horses to a standstill. Their pursuers were upon them in moments, and she knew they were surrounded. Reaching below the stuffed pillow on the opposite seat, Amelia quickly retrieved a plain wooden box. She opened it up to reveal the tiny silver pistol inside. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide where best to hide it, and then settled for tucking it into the edge of her jeweled belt before covering it with her cloak.
She could hear the highwaymen arguing as they brought their mounts to a standstill, but it was not shouts of ‘your money or your life!’ as expected, but something that gave Amelia pause.
“What the devil are you playing at, man, shooting at us like that? You almost had my ear off!” came the indignant voice of one of the footpads.
“Trying to save my life, if you please,” retorted Phillip. “Now clear off, or I’ll give you another taste of my Bess, here!”
“I would not do so, monsieur, or I will be forced to shoot you with my pistol,” commented another of the brigands.
Amelia frowned. A voleur de grands cheminsoperating in Hyde Park?
“Hold fast Lou – I mean, hold fast, Duval, we’re not allowed to injure anyone, remember?”
The Frenchman gave a snort of disgust. “You are not to tell him that! Why would he hand over his money if he knows we will not hurt him?”
“Because we aren’t robbing servants! I thought we agreed to that already?”
“I see what’s happening,” said John Coachman, his tone triumphant. “You’re some toffs looking to kick up a lark! Well, not with my lady, you won’t be. Now do as my companion here suggests and clear off, or I’ll let him shoot that monstrosity of his right at you!”
“I might not if you pay me,” said Phillip in a reasonable tone. “For the trouble you’ve caused my lady, as it were. Hand over your purses.”
“Good, God, are you asking us to stand and deliver?” said the first highwayman, his indignation fanning to righteous fury. “Of all the strange hands to play! Blast it, come down off that carriage and face me like a man, you cur! I’ll wager I can plant you a facer before you can say Tipperary three times!”
“How much are you wagering?” asked Phillip, but his response was lost beneath the sound of the second set of thundering hooves.
“What now?” muttered Amelia. She scooted across the carriage seat so that she could look through the other window. From behind the dark clumps of trees that lined the road, three men mounted on black steeds appeared from the woodland, pistols in hand as they charged onto the road.
They did not head to her carriage as expected but made their way straight to the five men currently arguing with her servants.
“What in Hell’s name do you think you’re doing, hunting on our patch?” demanded the leader of the new arrivals. Amelia could just about glimpse his outline, and panic mingled with bile, rose into her throat.
The new arrivals had no lace at their cuffs or frock coats of velvet. Black and brown capes shrouded their figures, they wore stovepipe hats rather than tricornes, with rags tied about the bottom half of their faces instead of loo masks to disguise their identities.
“Good God, you’re Jerry Abershawe!” said one of the first group, and Amelia’s heart kicked. She knew that voice as well as her own and had argued the finer points of Greek history with it for hours on end.
“Wait, I thought we agreed you were Jerry Abershawe,” said one of his companions.
“Quiet, you fool! I mean, this is the real Abershawe!”
The newcomer at least seemed amused by the exchange.
“Well, now we’ve all established who I am, answer the question. Who the devil are you, and why are you in my territory?”
“It’s a complicated story,” began one of the first group, before a shout went up and several men started yelling at once.
“Put that damn blunderbuss down, man!