Five miles away, in a small posting inn, a man sat in his room, alone, with a bottle of expensive French brandy, an empty glass, a very small case of clothing, and a woman's ring.
His name was Jack Audley; formerly Captain John Audley of His Majesty's army; formerly Jack Audley of Butlersbridge, County Cavan, Ireland; formerly Jack Cavendish-Audley of the same place; and formerly - as formerly as one could get, as it was at the time of his christening - John Augustus Cavendish.
The miniature had meant nothing to him. He could barely see it in the night, and he'd yet to find a portraitist who could capture a man's essence on a miniature painting, anyway.
But the ring...
With an unsteady hand, he poured himself another drink.
He hadn't looked closely at the ring when he took it from the old lady's hands. But now, in the privacy of his rented room, he'd looked. And what he'd seen had shaken him to his bones.
He'd seen that ring before. On his own finger.
His was a masculine version, but the design was identical. A twisted flower, a tiny swirled D. He'd never known what it meant, as he'd been told that his father's name was John Augustus Cavendish, no capital D's to be found anywhere.
He still didn't know what the D stood for, but he knew that the old lady did. And no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that this was just a coincidence, he knew that this evening, on a deserted Lincolnshire road, he'd met his grandmother.
Good Lord.
He looked down at the ring again. He'd propped it up on the table, its face winking up at him in the candlelight. Abruptly, he twisted his own ring and yanked it off. He couldn't remember the last time his finger had been bare. His aunt had always insisted that he keep it close; it was the only keepsake they had of his father.
His mother, they told him, had been clutching it in her shivering fingers when she was pulled from the frigid waters of the Irish Sea.
Slowly, Jack held the ring out, carefully setting it down next to its sister. His lips flattened slightly as he regarded the pair. What had he been thinking? That when he got the two side by side he'd see that they were actually quite different?
He'd known little of his father. His name, of course, and that he was the younger son of a well-to-do English family. His aunt had met him but twice; her impression had been that he was somewhat estranged from his relations. He spoke of them only laughingly, in that manner people used when they did not wish to say anything of substance.
He hadn't much money, or so his aunt assumed. His clothes were fine, but well-worn, and as far as anyone could tell, he'd been wandering the Irish countryside for months. He'd said he had come to witness the wedding of a school friend and liked it so much that he stayed. His aunt saw no reason to doubt this.
In the end, all Jack knew was this: John Augustus Cavendish was a well-born English gentleman who'd traveled to Ireland, fallen in love with Louise Galbraith, married her, and then died when the ship carrying them to England had sunk off the coast of Ireland. Louise had washed ashore, her body bruised and shivering, but alive. It was over a month before anyone realized she was pregnant.
But she was weak, and she was devastated by grief, and her sister - the woman who had raised Jack as her own - said it was more of a surprise that Louise survived the pregnancy than it was that she finally succumbed at his birth.
And that fairly well summed up Jack's knowledge of his paternal heritage. He thought about his parents from time to time, wondering who they'd been and which had gifted him with his ready smile, but in truth, he'd never yearned for anything more. At the age of two days he'd been given to William and Mary Audley, and if they had ever loved their own children more, they never allowed him to know it.
Jack had grown up the de facto son of a country squire, with two brothers, a sister, and twenty acres of rolling pasture, perfect for riding, running, jumping - anything a young boy could fancy.
It had been a marvelous childhood. Damn near perfect. If he was not leading the life he'd anticipated, if he sometimes lay in bed and wondered what the hell he was doing robbing coaches in the dead of night - at least he knew that the road to this point had been paved with his own choices, his own flaws.
And most of the time, he was happy. He was reasonably cheerful by nature, and really, one could do worse than playing Robin Hood along rural British roads. At least he felt as if he had some sort of purpose. After he and the army had parted ways, he'd not known what to do with himself. He was not willing to return to his life as a soldier, and yet, what else was he qualified to do? He had two skills in life, it seemed: He could sit a horse as if he'd been born in the position, and he could turn a conversation with enough wit and flair to charm even the crustiest of individuals. Put together, robbing coaches had seemed the most logical choice.
Jack had made his first theft in Liverpool, when he'd seen a young toff kick a one-handed former soldier who'd had the temerity to beg for a penny. Somewhat buoyed by a rather potent pint of ale, Jack had followed the fellow into a dark corner, pointed a gun a his heart, and walked off with his wallet.
The contents of which he had then dispersed among the beggars on Queens Way, most of whom had fought for - and then been forgotten by - the good people of England.
Well, ninety per cent of the contents had been dispersed. Jack had to eat, too.
After that, it had been an easy step to move to highway robbery. It was so much more elegant than the life of footpad. And it could not be denied that it was much easier to get away on horseback.
And so that was his life. It was what he did. If he'd gone back to Ireland, he would probably be married by now, sleeping with one woman, in one bed, in one house. His life would be County Cavan, and his world a far, far smaller place than it was today.
His was a roaming soul. That was why he did not go back to Ireland.
He splashed a bit more brandy into his glass. There were a hundred reasons why he did not go back to Ireland. Fifty, at least.
He took a sip, then another, then drank deeply until he was too sotted to continue his dishonesty.
There was one reason he did not go back to Ireland. One reason, and four people he did not think he could face.
Rising from his seat, he walked to the window and looked out. There wasn't much to see - a small barn for horses, a thickly leaved tree across the road. The moonlight had turned the air translucent - shimmery and thick, as if a man could step outside and lose himself.
He smiled grimly. It was tempting. It was always tempting.
He knew where Belgrave Castle was. He'd been in the county for a week; one could not remain in Lincolnshire that long without learning the locations of the grand houses, even if one wasn't a thief out to rob their inhabitants. He could take a look, he supposed. He probably should take a look. He owed it to someone. Hell, maybe he owed it to himself.
He hadn't been interested in his father much...but he'd always been interested a little. And he was here.
Who knew when he'd be in Lincolnshire again? He was far too fond of his head to ever stay in one place for long.
He didn't want to talk to the old lady. He didn't want to introduce himself and make explanations or pretend that he was anything other than what he was -
A veteran of the war.
A highwayman.
A rogue.
An idiot.
An occasionally sentimental fool who knew that the softhearted ladies who'd tended the wounded had it all wrong - sometimes you couldn't go home again.
But dear Lord, what he wouldn't give just to take a peek.
He closed his eyes. His family would welcome him back. That was the worst of it. His aunt would put her arms around him. She would tell him it wasn't his fault. She would be so understanding.
But she would not understand. That was his final thought before he fell asleep.
And dreamed of Ireland.
The following day dawned bright and mockingly clear. Had it rained, Jack wouldn't have bothered to go.
He was on horseback, and he'd spent enough of his life pretending he didn't mind that he was soaked to the skin. He did not ride in the rain if he did not have to. He'd earned that much, at least.
But he was not meant to meet up with his cohorts until nightfall, so he did not have an excuse for not going. Besides, he was just going to look. Maybe see if there was some way he could leave the ring for the old lady. He suspected it meant a great deal to her, and even though he could have probably got a hefty sum for it, he knew he would not be able to bring himself to sell it.
And so he ate a hearty breakfast - accompanied by a noxious beverage the innkeeper swore would clear his head, not that Jack had said anything other than, "Eggs," before the fellow said, "I'll get what you need." Amazingly, the concoction worked (hence the ability to digest the hearty breakfast), and Jack mounted his horse and took off toward Belgrave Castle at an unhurried pace.
He'd ridden about the area frequently over the last few days, but this was the first time he found himself curious at his surroundings. The trees seemed more interesting to him for some reason - the shape of the leaves, the way they showed their backs when the wind blew. The blossoms, too. Some were familiar to him, identical to the ones that bloomed in Ireland. But others were new, perhaps native to the dales and fens of the region.
It was odd. He wasn't sure what he was meant to be thinking about. Perhaps that this vista was what his father had seen every time he'd ridden along the same road. Or maybe that, but for a freak storm in the Irish Sea, these might be the flowers and trees of his own childhood. Jack did not know whether his parents would have made their home in England or Ireland. They were apparently going over to introduce his mother to the Cavendish family when their ship had gone down. Aunt Mary had said that they were planning to decide where to live after Louise had a chance to see a bit of England.
Jack paused and plucked a leaf off a tree, for no reason other than whimsy. It wasn't as green as the ones at home, he decided. Not that it mattered, of course, except that in a strange way, it did.
He tossed the leaf to the ground and with a snort of impatience, took off at a greater speed. It was ludicrous that he felt even a niggle of guilt at going over to see the castle. Good God, it wasn't as if he was going to introduce himself. He did not want to find a new family. He owed the Audleys far more than that.
He just wanted to see it. From afar. To see what might have been, what he was glad hadn't been.
But maybe should have been.
Jack took off at a gallop, letting the wind blow the memories away. The speed was cleansing, almost forgiving, and before he knew it he was at the end of the drive. And all he could think was -
Good Lord.
Grace was exhausted.
She'd slept the night before, but not much, and not well. And even though the dowager had chosen to spend the morning in bed, Grace had not been afforded that luxury.
The dowager was powerfully demanding, whether vertical, horizontal, or, should she ever figure out how to hold the position, at a slant.
And so even though she tossed and turned, and refused to lift her head from the pillow, she still managed to summon Grace six times.
The first hour.
Finally, she had become engrossed in a batch of letters Grace had dug up for her at the bottom of her late husband's old desk, tucked in a box labeled:
JOHN, ETON.
Saved by school papers. Who would have thought?
Grace's moment of rest was interrupted not twenty minutes later, however, by the arrival of the Ladies Elizabeth and Amelia Willoughby, the pretty, blond daughters of the Earl of Crowland, longtime neighbors and, Grace was always delighted to note, friends.
Elizabeth especially. They were of an age, and before Grace's position in the world had plummeted with the death of her parents, had been considered proper companions. Oh, everyone knew that Grace would not make a match like the Willoughby girls - she would never have a London season, after all. But when they were all in Lincolnshire, they were, if not equals, then at least on something of the same level.
People weren't so fussy at the Dance and Assembly.
And when the girls were alone, rank was never something they noticed.
Amelia was Elizabeth's younger sister. Just by a year, but when they were all younger, it had seemed a massive gulf, so Grace did not know her nearly so well. That would change soon, though, she supposed.
Amelia was betrothed to Thomas, and had been from the cradle. It would have been Elizabeth, except she was promised to another young lord (also in infancy; Lord Crowland was not one to leave matters to chance). Elizabeth's fellow, however, had died quite young. Lady Crowland (who was not one for tact) had declared it all very inconvenient, but the papers binding Amelia to Thomas had already been signed, and it was deemed best to leave matters as they were.
Grace had never discussed the engagement with Thomas - they were friends, but he would never talk about something so personal with her. Still, she had long suspected that he found the entire situation rather convenient. A fiancee did keep marriage-minded misses (and their mamas) at bay. Somewhat. It was quite obvious that the ladies of England believed in hedging their bets, and poor Thomas could not go anywhere without the women attempting to put themselves in the best possible light, just in case Amelia should, oh, disappear.
Die.
Decide she didn't wish to be a duchess.
Really, Grace thought wryly, as if Amelia had any choice in the matter.
But even though a wife would be a far more effective deterrent than a fiancee, Thomas continued to drag his feet, which Grace thought dreadfully insensitive of him. Amelia was one-and-twenty, for heaven's sake. And according to Lady Crowland, at least four men would have offered for her in London if she had not been marked as the future Duchess of Wyndham.
(Elizabeth, sister that she was, said it was closer to three, but still, the poor girl had been dangling like a string for years.)
"Books!" Elizabeth announced as they entered the hall. "As promised."
At her behest, Elizabeth's mother had borrowed several books from the dowager. Not that Lady Crowland actually read the books. Lady Crowland read very little outside the gossip pages, but returning them was a fine pretext to visit Belgrave, and she was always in favor of anything that placed Amelia in the vicinity of Thomas.
No one had the heart to tell her that Amelia rarely even saw Thomas when she was at Belgrave. Most of the time, she was forced to endure the dowager's company - company, however, being perhaps too generous a word to describe Augusta Cavendish whilst standing before the young lady who was meant to carry on the Wyndham line.
The dowager was very good at finding fault. One might even call it her greatest talent.
And Amelia was her favorite subject.
But today she had been spared. The dowager was still upstairs, reading her dead son's Latin conjugations, and so Amelia had ended up sipping tea while Grace and Elizabeth chatted.
Or rather, Elizabeth chatted. It was all Grace could do to nod and murmur in the appropriate moments.
One would think her tired mind would go utterly blank, but the opposite was true. She could not stop thinking about the highwayman. And his kiss. And his identity. And his kiss. And if she would meet him again. And that he'd kissed her. And -
And she had to stop thinking about him. It was madness. She looked over at the tea tray, wondering if it would be rude to eat the last biscuit.
" - certain you are well, Grace?" Elizabeth said, reaching forward to clasp her hand. "You look very tired."
Grace blinked, trying to focus on her dear friend's face. "I'm sorry," she said reflexively. "I am quite tired, although that is not an excuse for my inattention."
Elizabeth grimaced. She knew the dowager. They all did. "Did she keep you up late last night?"
Grace nodded. "Yes, although, truthfully, it was not her fault."
Elizabeth glanced to the doorway to make sure no one was listening before she replied, "It is always her fault."
Grace smiled wryly. "No, this time it really wasn't. We were..." Well, really, was there any reason not to tell Elizabeth? Thomas already knew, and surely it would be all over the district by nightfall. "We were accosted by highwaymen, actually."
"Oh, my heavens! Grace!" Elizabeth hastily set down her teacup. "No wonder you appear so distracted!"
"Hmmm?" Amelia had been staring off into space, as she frequently did while Grace and Elizabeth were nattering on, but this had clearly got her attention.
"I am quite recovered," Grace assured her. "Just a bit tired, I'm afraid. I did not sleep well."
"What happened?" Amelia asked.
Elizabeth actually shoved her. "Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!"
"Really?"
Grace nodded. "Last night. On the way home from the assembly." And then she thought - Good Lord, if the highwayman is really the dowager's grandson, and he is legitimate, what happens to Amelia?
But he wasn't legitimate. He couldn't be. He might very well be a Cavendish by blood, but surely not by birth. Sons of dukes did not leave legitimate offspring littering the countryside. It simply did not happen.
"Did they take anything?" Amelia asked.
"How can you be so dispassionate?" Elizabeth demanded. "They pointed a gun at her!" She turned to Grace. "Did they?"
Grace saw it again in her mind - the cold round end of the pistol, the slow, seductive gaze of the highwayman. He wouldn't have shot her. She knew that now. But still, she murmured, "They did, actually."
"Were you terrified?" Elizabeth asked breathlessly. "I would have been. I would have swooned."
"I wouldn't have swooned," Amelia remarked.
"Well, of course you wouldn't," Elizabeth said irritably. "You didn't even gasp when Grace told you about it."
"It sounds rather exciting, actually." Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. "Was it?"
And Grace - Good heavens, she felt herself blush.
Amelia leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. "Was he handsome, then?"
Elizabeth looked at her sister as if she were mad. "Who?"
"The highwayman, of course."
Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.
"He was," Amelia said triumphantly.
"He was wearing a mask," Grace felt compelled to point out.
"But you could still tell that he was handsome."
"No!"
"Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?" Amelia's eyes grew even wider. "Spanish."
"You've gone mad," Elizabeth said.
"He didn't have an accent," Grace retorted. Then she thought of that lilt, that devilish little lift in his voice that she couldn't quite place. "Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn't tell, precisely."
Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. "A highwayman. How romantic."
"Amelia Willoughby!" Elizabeth scolded. "Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?"
Amelia opened her mouth to reply, but just then they heard footsteps in the hall.
"The dowager?" Elizabeth whispered to Grace, looking very much as if she'd like to be wrong.
"I don't think so," Grace replied. "She was still abed when I came down. She was rather...ehrm...distraught."
"I should think so," Elizabeth remarked. Then she gasped. "Did they make away with her emeralds?"