“And leave the rest of us with nothing to do, lad?” John, one of the older men, asked while the others laughed.
Eric gave his brother a stern look. “There will be no fighting unless we are forced to. I explained that to you earlier.”
Alfrigg set his jaw. “Ja, but simply subduing the guard seems so…tame. Do we not want to put fear in them?”
“The guards are common working men,” Eric said. “Word has spread that the Midnight Marauder means them no harm, if they do not resist.”
“Our intention is to relieve the aristocrats of their coin,” Stephan added. When Eric raised a questioning eyebrow, Stephan shook his head slightly. Mentioning the other proposition of taking a lady’s jewels or her submitting to a kiss would only stir Alfrigg’s blood. Stephan wanted no trouble from the young one. Eric nodded imperceptibly, and Stephan turned his attention back to the road.
He toyed with the idea of giving Amelia a kiss. It would serve her pompous-ass husband right to have to stand there helplessly while he did it. She’d not resist since she was too fond of her jewels to part with them. And he could make the kiss very thorough and force her to break her ice-maiden mold. In a way, subjecting her to the humiliation of a highwayman accosting her would be fitting revenge for Alexander, if not for himself. But Stephan found the idea repugnant.
Tonight, there would be no choice. He would take the jewels.
The sound of the horses’ hooves was louder now. In another minute, they’d be rounding the bend and visible to the men who lay in wait beneath a copse of trees. Stephan lowered the domino over his face, gesturing to his men to do the same.
As the carriage appeared, he urged his horse forward.
“Faire halte! Je commande!!!”
Stephan straightened his top coat and brushed his hair back as he approached the front steps of the Pavilion shortly after eleven o’clock that evening. He’d excused himself after dinner, saying he had to check something on his boat. He doubted that he’d been missed in the saloon since he didn’t frequent it regularly. He prayed his absence had gone undetected, but it was a chance he had to take since the Midnight Marauder needed to strike to divert attention from the pirate raid.
Stopping the carriage had not gone as smoothly as he’d hoped. For one thing, Ashley was not carrying a great amount of coin, but then he was arrogant enough to expect fawning and favors at every turn, given he was a damn duke. Worse, though, was the taking of Amelia’s sapphires. She’d refused to hand them over, and when Stephan yanked at the necklace, breaking its clasp, she’d fought like a she-bear protecting a lone cub. He rubbed his sore jaw where she’d managed to land a surprisingly strong punch before he’d managed to restrain her arms. At least his Vandyke beard had not been torn off in the tussle.
Stephan had never actually taken jewelry before since the young ladies always allowed a kiss—some blushing and shocked, others not—but they’d kept their gold lockets and pearl strands. Why a female would risk injuring herself—or maybe losing her life if he had been an actual cutthroat—Stephan couldn’t imagine. The stones weren’t even all that large, and certainly Danworth could afford to replace them.
The ducal carriage was not in the driveway, and the doorman who let Stephan in wore the same stiff, formal expression he always did. Even the best trained and most experienced of servants would be hard put not to show some emotion if the duke had arrived with the duchess in hysterics. Since Stephan could discern no unusual noise coming from within, it probably meant that the news of the attack had not yet come.
As he crossed to the long gallery, he entertained the idea of stopping by the red drawing room off to the side to speak to Caroline, but then decided it best not to attract attention to the exact time of his arrival. Better to slip into the saloon and become part of a crowd well soused in libations.
He accepted brandy from a waiter and made his way to a small, unoccupied table sandwiched between two of the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Strategically placed lanterns illuminated several footpaths into the gardens beyond. Brice was probably out there, persuading a maid to allow him to steal a kiss behind a rose trellis. Stephan grinned and made a mental note to take Caroline strolling the next evening.
That is, if he could disengage himself from Lady Ann. His smile faded. He had no wish to hurt the girl’s feelings, but she managed to stick to him like mud from a bog. Even though he’d managed to switch place cards at dinner so Caroline would be on one side of him, Ann had somehow managed to take the chair on the other side. He’d nearly developed whiplash from having to turn from his conversation with Caroline to answer whatever inane question Ann was asking. If they hadn’t all been placed directly across from Prinny—Stephan could swear the prince did so for his own amusement—it might have been easy to pretend not to hear the girl.
Stephan brightened a little at the thought that Danworth’s presence would have at least one benefit. The seating arrangement would have to change to allow for the highest-titled aristocrat to sit closest to the prince. The farther away Stephan could move, the better.
He’d only finished half his drink when he heard the clattering of hooves outside. He put the snifter down. The duke had arrived.
…
The hour was growing late, and Caroline was just about to retire to bed—how many hands of whist could one play in an evening anyway?—when horses pounded onto the graveled, circular drive in front of the pavilion. A harsh rapping on the front door a few minutes later was accompanied by an extremely angry voice that sounded familiar. All the ladies dropped their cards and rushed toward the entrance. Heavy male footsteps clamored from the saloon behind them.
Caroline was nearly run over by the men as she stopped suddenly in her tracks, her mouth dropping open in surprise. A red-faced, irate Lord Danforth stood in the hall accompanied by a very disheveled-looking Lady Danworth. Caroline snapped her mouth closed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Amelia in such a state of disrepair. Some of the pins had come out of her hair, causing part of it to hang in loose strands. Her cloak was muddied as though it had been dropped, and she was wearing only one glove. The seams in the sleeves of her gown were ripped as well.
“Goodness gracious!” Melanie exclaimed as she and Jeannette rushed forward. “Whatever happened to you?”
“We were assaulted by that hideous Frenchman!” Amelia said, taking a handkerchief someone offered and delicately dabbing her eyes. “It was awful.”
Frenchman? Caroline felt her pulse race. “Do you mean the Midnight Marauder?”
“If that is what he calls himself, he cannot tell time,” George replied. “It is half past eleven o’clock.”
Caroline refrained from rolling her eyes. Trust George to take the question literally. And why was he looking immaculate, his clothing in perfect order and not a speck of dirt on him? He obviously had offered no resistance, but then, unlike his brother Alex, George used words for swords and expected the world to fall into a respectful line due to his title.
And why did he have to be the only duke so far who’d decided to attend? She already had to put up with the earl. Now it seemed she’d have to tolerate her formeralmost-betrothed also. And Amelia.
The ladies were all chattering now, having formed a protective circle around Amelia, leading her into the long gallery. Since Caroline had nothing to say to George, she followed them.
“Do tell us exactly what happened,” Melanie said when they were all seated.
