The Crimson Cavaliers Read online

  … it is good to see a publisher investing in fresh work that… falls four-square within the genre’s traditions.

  - Martin Edwards, author of the highly acclaimed Harry Devlin Mysteries

  Créme de la Crime … so far have not put a foot wrong.

  - Reviewing the Evidence

  First published in 2007

  by Crème de la Crime

  PO Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT

  Copyright © 2007 Mary Andrea Clarke

  The moral right of Mary Andrea Clarke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typesetting by Yvette Warren

  Cover design by Yvette Warren

  Front cover image by Peter Roman

  ISBN 978-0-9551589-5-7

  eBook ISBN 978-1-9067905-8-5

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in Germany by Bercker.

  www.cremedelacrime.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the author:

  Currently working in the Civil Service, Mary Andrea Clarke has been a regular delegate at crime fiction conferences and a member of Mystery Women since 1998. She has reviewed historical fiction for the Historical Novel Society and crime fiction for Sherlock Magazine, Shots Ezine and Mystery Women. Mary lives in Surrey with her cat, Alice.

  The contribution of my late mother has been vital; her belief and encouragement kept me going through the spells of rejection. I wish she could have been here to see the final result.

  A major thank-you to Jason Perrott for his invaluable help in pruning the manuscript, publicity photographs and consistent moral support and belief.

  Thanks to Jane Baker, Kate Charles, Michelle Spring and Alison Weir for their guidance and encouragement.

  My editor Meriel Patrick has been conscientious and thorough and I am grateful for her insight.

  A number of people have given encouragement and support on the journey in bringing this book to print. These include Linda Clarke, Gaynor Coules, the late Sandra Gaffney, Lizzie Hayes, Sue Lord, Adrian Magson, Ayo Onatade, Kate Stacey, friends from Mystery Women, the St Hilda’s Crime Fiction Conference and David Headley and Daniel Gedeon of Goldsboro Books.

  The staff of Dragons Health Club in Guildford deserve a mention for allowing me writing time in their coffee bar, even when I had finished eating and drinking.

  Finally, a huge thank-you goes to Lynne Patrick and everyone at Créme de la Crime for believing in me and the book enough to give me this opportunity.

  To Mom and Dad, with thanks for your love, support and belief

  1

  The pistol didn’t waver. There had been no need to fire it; the sight of the stark metal in the black-gloved hand had been enough to instil obedience in the shivering figures beside the carriage. One after another, valuables were surrendered.

  “Thank you for your co-operation,” the highway robber drawled, passing down the line of submissive faces with an upside-down tricorne for the goods. Watches, fobs, rings went in, the victims quietly submitting to the persuasive glint of the barrel pointed at them, the only sound in the night air the uneasy whinnying of the horses.

  At the end of the line the robber faced a young girl in pale yellow, watching with some interest as she slowly drew off her bracelets.

  “La, sir, do you mean to rob me as well?”

  “Can you think of any reason why I should not?”

  “Well, it seems a most ungentlemanly thing to do.” The demure tone was belied by the flirtatiousness in her eyes.

  Not again, thought the robber. These coquettish girls were becoming a bore. Didn’t they have enough eligible men dangling after them? It was always the pretty ones; the plain ladies generally reacted with the indignation and outraged virtue one expected.

  Glancing towards the older woman beside the girl, the highway robber saw the scandalised horror which appeared on many a maternal countenance.

  “I am no gentleman. Oh, have no fear, madam. I have no designs on your daughter’s virtue. I am only interested in her jewels. I beg you will instruct her to hand them over.”

  The young lady complied, disappointment evident in her face. The older woman reacted promptly, boxing her daughter’s ear; the robber’s eyes flashed, muscles tensing in anger.

  “Do you mean to keep us here all night?” demanded a solidly built gentleman, cheeks red with indignation. “You’ve got what you came for. Why don’t you be off?”

  The robber regarded this outspoken individual thoughtfully, raising the pistol to half cock, a thumb hovering in position. “Ah, a hero.”

  The movement of the weapon transformed the bluster into unease. Dignity vanished as beads of sweat appeared on his face, and his wig, knocked askew when he had been bundled out of the carriage, made for a slightly comic appearance. The moment of silence seemed interminable. Finally, his tormentor put him out of his misery, taking a step back and bowing to the assembled company.

  “Thank you for your generosity. You may continue your journey. However, I beg you will be careful. There are a number of highway robbers on this road, and I regret not all are as gallant as I.”

  The passengers boarded the coach, venturing glances towards the pistol. Nursing her ear, the flirtatious young lady was pushed on board by her angry mother, but not before bestowing a coy smile on the cloaked figure.

  “Outrageous!” grumbled the solidly built gentleman, regaining his courage as he settled into a corner of the coach. “Cut-throats holding up innocent citizens.”

  “I beg pardon,” said the robber, having caught these words. “I’m sure none of us is so innocent as we would have the world believe.” The pistol once again faced the bombastic passenger. “Probably not even you, my dear sir.”

  “Insolent puppy!” sputtered the indignant individual. “I’m a respected member of the community. How dare you insinuate I have something to hide?”

  The robber’s eyes rolled heavenward, inflaming his opponent even more.

  “I’m not without influence,” blustered the man. “You’ll pay for this, mark my words.”

  The robber ignored the warning and stowed the evening’s proceeds in a black velvet bag secured to a pistol belt. The cheerful crimson scarf which trimmed the tricorne stood out boldly in the moonlight. The sleek chestnut waited patiently as its owner nodded to the driver, weapon focused. “Be off with you, before I find myself tempted to use this.”

  The driver did not need a second telling. He whipped the horses along the London road at a speed to rival Letty Lade at her most reckless. The chestnut whinnied as the robber pulled it in the opposite direction, hooves pounding as its limbs stretched out t
o gallop.

  The horse’s lean muscles covered the ground with easy speed, quickly putting distance between robber and victims. A breeze began to agitate the trees.

  “Keep calm. Panic is the road to the gallows.”

  The robber gave the road a final swift glance and turned the horse towards the woods. The trees always provided good cover, and although necessity varied the route, the lie of the land was familiar enough to ease their escape. Even in the dark, horse and rider moved with easy rapport.

  The pace slowed and steadied as they followed a series of turns which brought them back to the road they had started from. The trees thinned, and as they emerged from the cover, the rider pulled up and dismounted, pausing to stroke the animal’s neck.

  “Sssh! All’s well.”

  The robber twisted the reins securely around one hand, the other stroking the pistol. They were back on the Bath Road, nearer London than when they had parted company with the travellers. A few moments’ careful observation revealed no indications of approaching carriage wheels; such a cumbersome equipage would still be some minutes away. The robber remounted swiftly and turned towards London.

  The wind grew stronger, and the snap of a branch startled the horse. “Quiet, Princess,” murmured its owner. “Not much longer.”

  Gaps between the trees began to show the occasional house. The horse slowed, grew more cautious. The uneven road gave way to a cobbled street. Eventually, the unnaturally loud clip-clop of hooves slowed still further as they approached a square of apparently unfulfilled ambitions. Several tasteful yet imposing residences had established positions between the same number of vacant, unclaimed sites. The rider slipped down quickly from the animal’s glistening back and led it through a passage to the back of a house which stood isolated on one side of the square.

  The stables were in darkness. One horse, stalled for the night, gave a slight whinny, but fell obediently silent at a low command.

  The rider led the chestnut to an empty stall, casting watchful eyes around for wakeful stable-boys or an over-conscientious groom. All was peaceful, and as the stall’s door closed behind them, the rider offered a carrot retrieved from a pocket. The other hand stroked and petted the horse’s head. “Good girl, Princess, a fine job again tonight!”

  The slower pace of the last part of the journey had allowed the animal to cool, but restoring saddle, bit and bridle to their respective hooks and rubbing down the horse was nevertheless a long task. The animal was eventually settled for the night and the rider slipped out of the stall, fastening the door quietly.

  Emerging from the stable still masked, the solitary dark figure looked cautiously about before slipping speedily to the side of the main house. A door was unlocked; the robber glided inside unobserved. The back stairs were visible in the gloom; the robber took them two at a time, and quietly continued through the upstairs hall, heading purposefully towards a particular door.

  Opening it without ceremony, the figure strode in.

  It was a large bedroom, unoccupied, and the robber visibly relaxed within its sanctuary, removing the black mask once a candle was ensconced on the mantelpiece. The tricorne and gloves landed carelessly on the bed and expert fingers untied the black riband which held back the hair. One or two locks had already begun to escape, and a mane of auburn curls now tumbled about the shoulders of – a young lady.

  She stood before a mirror, critically surveying her reflection as she deftly tidied the glossy tresses.

  Removing the velvet purse from her belt, she smiled. It had been a good night’s work. She turned the bag out on the counterpane of the grand four-poster bed and began to check the contents. It was easy to feel some sympathy with the travellers, though the high-handed manners of the gentleman and older woman tended to keep their share to a minimum.

  A barely perceptible scratching sent her hand to a pistol instantly, an accelerated heartbeat drumming in her ears.

  “Who’s there?” she asked in a low voice.

  “It’s me, miss.”

  Relaxing slightly, she let go of the pistol.

  “Come in, Emily.”

  A door leading to the adjoining dressing room opened and a young woman of about twenty entered. Her eyes widened as she saw the little pile glistening on the bed. “Miss Grey!”

  Miss Georgiana Grey looked up from her task, her eyes meeting those of her maid. “All quiet here? My cousin hasn’t been wakeful?”

  Emily shook her head as she closed the door and came further into the room. “Not a sound.”

  “Good.”

  Georgiana continued to count, adding steadily to the growing number of piles on her bed.

  “What do you think, Emily? I held up Sir Robert Foster’s carriage. Can you believe it?”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open.

  “Sir – Sir Robert Foster?” she repeated blankly. “Oh, please, miss, please tell me you didn’t.”

  “You may be very sure I did,” responded Georgiana. “Dreadful man. He kept talking pompously about the outrage of it, but made no push to defend himself or his companions.” She finished counting. “There, ten pounds. And look at the jewels.” Georgiana picked up a striking ring and slid it on to her finger. The dark stone flickered against the reflection of the candlelight, the contrast complementing the fair skin of her hand.

  “But he’s the worst of them,” wailed Emily. “You’ve heard his talk about making examples. If he were to recognise you, you’d hang!”

  “Oh, no I won’t,” said Georgiana, “not if I don’t shoot anyone. For all their brave talk, one magistrate is very much like another. Besides, there are ways of avoiding these things. A well placed bribe can effect quite remarkable miracles.”

  “Even so, it’s reckless.”

  “Really, Emily, this is hardly an occupation for the prudent,” said Georgiana, wandering over to the mirror to untie her cravat. “What difference does it make who’s in the coach? Besides, have you forgotten what Sir Robert did to James?”

  “Of course not, miss. It’s just that … ”

  “Surely if ever someone deserved to fall victim to a highwayman, it’s Sir Robert Foster. And do stop wringing your hands! You look like one of those tragic heroines, waiting for someone to die.”

  Emily indignantly snatched up the discarded cravat and folded it carefully. “I beg your pardon, Miss Georgiana,” she said stiffly. “I only wish to help.”

  “Then help me out of these boots.”

  The removal of a pair of smart gentleman’s boots had formed no part of a lady’s maid’s training, but after nearly two years of practice, Emily rivalled any valet at the task. Seated on the edge of the bed, Georgiana stretched out her stockinged feet and leaned back. She watched her maid thoughtfully. Emily and her brother James had been part of Georgiana’s life ever since she could remember. They had virtually grown up together, and Georgiana thought of Emily more as a friend than a servant. Despite her cousin’s disapproval, she could not bring herself to obey convention and address the girl as ‘Cooper’ after their years together.

  “Well, Emily?”

  “Miss?”

  “Say your piece. This dignified silence is growing oppressive.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, miss.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. You may as well do it now as later.”

  Emily remained silent, throwing her mistress a baleful look. Georgiana raised an eyebrow.

  “If you must have it, miss, I think you’re taking too many chances. You’ve held up Sir Robert before.”

  “That was a long time ago, and there was a reason for it.”

  “Yes, miss,” said Emily in a more subdued tone. “And I was – am – grateful.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Emily, I’m not looking for gratitude.”

  “I know,” said Emily. “But you seemed to be the only one who believed James.”

  “I’m sure Edward believed him,” said Georgiana, “even if he didn’t feel able to do anything about it.”

  “
Then there was the expense. James’s court costs and that fine, and giving your brooch to Sir Robert as a present for his sister–”

  “Only because Sir Robert had hinted it might make him lenient. I suppose it depends on one’s idea of leniency,” Georgiana said reflectively. “Anyway, no matter, I got it back.”

  “That’s always worried me, miss,” said Emily. “What if he sees you wearing it? How do you mean to explain having a brooch which a highwayman stole from his sister?”

  “Easily. I had it copied before I gave it to him.”

  Emily seemed satisfied, but still looked worried.

  “Yes, well, miss, I still don’t like you stopping him again. The next thing you know, you’ll be meeting him at some party or other and then there’ll be trouble.”

  “Nonsense,” said Georgiana. “How likely is Sir Robert to recognise me as the notorious Crimson Cavalier? I wasn’t planning to wear the same clothes to a ball, even a masked one. Though I am rather tempted by this ring. Do you think I should keep it?”

  “What about your hair?” retorted Emily. “How many people have hair that colour?”

  Georgiana was idly twisting a lock around her finger. Her hair had always been a potential problem. So far she had been lucky. She kept it well tied, and the darkness muted the vivid colour. Descriptions of the Crimson Cavalier’s hair varied from to brown to jet black; and Georgiana had been amused to read in one newspaper account that her emerald eyes were now brown.

  “True,” she conceded. “However, that may yet prove an advantage.”

  “Miss?”

  Georgiana gave her maid a mischievous look. “When do I ever wear red? How likely is anyone to associate this with me?” She gestured at the crimson scarf. “Besides, even if Sir Robert did by some chance guess the truth, can you honestly see that arrogant man telling the world he was held up by a woman?”

  “You can’t be sure what he’d do, miss. And I don’t like you carrying those pistols!”

  Georgiana stared at her maid in open astonishment. “A highwayman without a pistol? I never heard of such a thing.”