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‘Mr Hutton has travelled from Beringham to be here,’ said Hywel.
Conscious of her duty, she gave the man her most charming smile.
‘I am sure we are very grateful to you for coming so far.’
‘And I am glad to see you here,’ replied Mr Hutton, taking her hand and pressing a whiskery kiss upon her fingers. ‘Especially glad to know that you did not take any hurt getting here.’ He laughed at her look of confusion and squeezed her hand. ‘Why, ma’am, it’s all over Beringham that the Scarborough coach was held up.’
‘Ah, yes.’ So that was where she had heard his name before. Her excellent memory recalled the coachman mentioning that a Mr Hutton had been robbed by the same highwayman.
‘There is no doubt that this “Dark Rider” is having an effect on business,’ Hutton continued. ‘Many are afraid to make the journey between Beringham and Allingford.’ The whiskery jowls quivered with indignation. ‘The sooner the fellow is caught and strung up, the better it will be for all of us.’
Such serious talk was not what was needed, so Charity summoned up her brightest smile.
‘I am very glad you were not discouraged from coming tonight, sir. I hope you enjoyed the performance and will come again.’
‘Aye, I did enjoy it, ma’am, very much, and very pleased I am that Mr Jenkin here has seen fit to open his theatre in Allingford.’ He made a little bow towards the actor/manager. ‘By Gad, sir, we need something to distract us from this dashed war.’
‘And there is nothing like a good play to do that, Mr Hutton,’ agreed Hywel. ‘Let me tell you what else we have planned....’
With a word and a smile Charity left the gentlemen to their conversation. She worked her way through the crowd, smiling and charming them all in the hope that they would return to the theatre for another evening. There were a couple baronets and one knight, but the rest were landowners or wealthy tradesmen from the town, many with their wives who were prepared to be jealous of a beautiful actress, but a few minutes in Charity’s company persuaded these matrons that there was no danger of the celebrated Mrs Weston stealing their husbands away from them.
As an actress in London, she had grown accustomed to fighting off the admirers who wanted to make her their mistress. It had not been easy, but with skill and quick thinking Charity had managed to maintain her virtue, generally without offending her admirers, and in the past few years while she had been touring under her own name, she had perfected her role. To the married men and their wives she was charmingly modest and at pains to make them understand that she was interested only in her profession and would take compliments upon her performance, but not her person. She succeeded very well and all the ladies agreed that she was a very prettily behaved young woman, although not, of course, the sort one could invite into one’s home.
However, the single young men who clustered about her were treated to a very different performance. She gave each one her attention for a short time, laughed off their effusive compliments and returned their friendly banter, refusing to be drawn into anything more than the mildest flirtation. Yet each one went away to spend the night in pleasurable dreams of the unattainable golden goddess.
The crowd in the green room showed no sign of dispersing. Charity smothered a yawn and was wondering how soon she could slip away when she was aware of someone at her shoulder. Summoning up her smile, she turned to find herself staring at the snowy folds of a white neckcloth. She stepped back a little to take in the whole man. He was soberly dressed in buckled shoes and white stockings with the cream knee breeches that were the norm for evening wear, but his plain dark coat carried no fobs or seals and he wore no quizzing glass. Yet he carried himself with an air of assurance and she guessed he was one of the wealthier inhabitants of Allingford.
His athletic figure and deeply tanned skin made her think he had spent a great deal of time abroad. His face was not exactly handsome, but it was arresting, with its strong jaw, hawkish nose and those dark eyes fringed with long black lashes that any woman would envy. When he bowed to her she noticed that his black hair was cut fashionably short and curled naturally about his head and down over his collar.
‘May I congratulate you on an excellent performance, Mrs Weston?’ The words were slow and measured, very much in keeping with his sober appearance, but there was something in his voice that was very attractive and strangely familiar. A memory fluttered, but was gone before she could grasp it.
‘Thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it.... Have we met before?’
‘How could that be, when you have only just arrived in Allingford?’ There was an elusive twinkle lurking in his dark eyes that was at odds with his grave tone. ‘Besides, if we had been introduced before, I would surely not have forgotten it.’
She wanted him to speak again, just so she could enjoy that deep, velvet-smooth voice.
‘You live in the town, sir?’
‘Close by. At Wheelston.’
‘Ah, I see. Is that very far from here?’
‘A few miles.’
His answers were annoyingly short. She looked up into his face and felt again that disturbing flutter of recognition.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but are you sure we haven’t—?’
He took out his watch and broke in upon her.
‘You must excuse me, Mrs Weston, it is getting late and I must cut and run. I wanted only to compliment you upon your performance. Goodnight to you.’
With a bow he was gone, leaving her dissatisfied with the brevity of their conversation. Sir Mark and Lady Beverley claimed her attention, but although she responded civilly to their praise and conversation, her eyes followed the tall stranger as he made his way across the room.
‘Tell me, Sir Mark,’ she interrupted the magistrate’s flow of small talk. ‘Who is that gentleman?’
‘Who?’ Sir Mark glanced up.
‘The one by the door.’ Charity felt a slight ripple of disappointment. The man had sought her out, but had obviously not been enamoured, since he was leaving so soon.
‘Oh, that’s Durden, not the most popular man in Allingford.’ Sir Mark turned back to her, his whiskers bristling. ‘He wasn’t rude to you, was he, ma’am?’
‘No, not at all. I was merely...curious.’
‘You are intrigued by his blackamoor appearance,’ suggested Lady Beverley. ‘That comes from his years in the navy, I believe. He was a sea captain, you know, but he came home two years ago, when his mother died.’
‘He is certainly not popular,’ Charity remarked, watching his progress towards the door. People avoided his eye, or even turned their backs as he passed. ‘Why should that be?’
Sir Mark hesitated before replying, ‘His taciturn manner, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Poor man,’ murmured Lady Beverley. ‘I am surprised, though, that Mr Jenkin should invite him—he has no money to invest in the theatre.’
‘Jenkin invited him for the same reason I make sure you send him a card to each of your parties,’ replied Sir Mark. ‘The property may be run down and its owner may not have a feather to fly with, but Wheelston is still one of the principal properties in the area. Unusual for Durden to turn up, though. He keeps to himself as a rule.’
‘Is that any wonder, given what happened?’ said Lady Beverley, shaking her head. ‘But I am not surprised that he should come this evening when we have such a celebrated actress in our midst! Ah, Mr Jenkin—let me congratulate you on your new leading lady. I was just telling Mrs Weston that I have never laughed so heartily at one of Mr Sheridan’s comedies...’
Charity wondered exactly what had happened to make Mr Ross Durden so unsociable, but the conversation had moved on and the moment was lost. Stoically, she put him from her mind and returned to charming the theatre’s patrons.
* * *
By heaven, what a damned uncomfortable evening! Why did I put myself through it?
Ross strode back to the livery stable to collect his horse, still smarting from the slights and outright snubs he had received from the worthy people of Allingford. Apart from the actor/manager, who knew nothing about him, and Sir Mark and his good-natured wife, no one else had made any effort to speak to him. He knew his neighbours thought he deserved their censure, and that was partly his own fault, for he had never done anything to explain the situation, but damn it all, why should he do so?
He turned his mind to the much more pleasant thought of Mrs Charity Weston, and a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. If he had talked to her much longer it was very likely she would have recognised him. Perhaps it was because she was an actress and used to playing parts herself that she noticed the similarities between the quiet, respectable gentleman farmer and the boisterous, lawless Dark Rider. Hell and confound it, he thought the way he disguised his voice and changed his whole manner would fool anyone, but apparently not. He had seen her fine brows draw together, noted the puzzled look in those large blue eyes—by God, but she was beautiful! Aye, that had almost been his undoing. Kissing her when he held up the Scarborough coach should have been enough for him. Why in heaven’s name had he gone to her house? Madness. He put up his hand to rub the white blaze that ran down the great horse’s face.
‘Well, Robin, no harm done this time, my old friend, but we will need to be more careful. We’d best give Mrs Weston a wide berth in future, I think.’
Ross rode back to the farm, the familiar cluster of stone buildings rearing up blackly against the night sky as he approached. A solitary lamp glowed in the yard and he found Jed dozing in a chair in the stables. Leaving the groom to take care of Robin, he went into the house.
Silence greeted him when he entered through the kitchen door, but a cold wet nose pressed against his hand.
‘Back in your box, Samson, good boy.’ He scratched at the dog’s head before the animal padded off into the shadows.
Mrs Cummings, his housekeeper, had gone to bed without leaving a light burning, but the sullen glow in the range showed him that she had banked up the fire against the winter chill. Lighting a lamp, he also noted with a burst of gratitude that she had left a jug of ale on the table and on a plate, under an upturned bowl, was a slice of meat pie.
The woman was a treasure. He must increase her wages—when he could afford it. He poured himself a mug of ale and threw himself down in the chair beside the fire. As he devoured the pie he thought about his situation. That it had come to this—a captain in his Majesty’s navy, decorated for bravery under fire, now struggling to pay his way. He picked up the poker and stirred the coals with rough, angry movements while a quiet, insidious voice murmured in his ear.
What about those coaches you hold up? You could take more than enough to live comfortably.
He shook his head to rid it of the tempting thought. He was no thief; he wanted justice and would take only what had been stolen from him. Why, even the mailbags he searched through were always left at the roadside, where they would be found intact the next day.
Then you’re a fool, said that insistent voice. If you’re caught, you’ll hang for highway robbery—no one will care about your justice.
‘I will,’ he said aloud to the empty room. ‘I’ll care.’
He drained his mug to wash down the last of the pie, then took up his bedroom candle to light his way up the stairs. The echo of his boots on the bare boards whispered around him.
Fool, fool.
* * *
Charity liked living in Allingford. Her fellow players were friendly, as were the townsfolk. Of the more noble families, only Sir Mark and Lady Beverley afforded her more than a distant nod if they saw her in the street, but she was accustomed to that. Actresses were not quite respectable. Her first appearance at the theatre was followed by equally successful performances in the tragedy Jane Shore and another comedy, The Busy Body. Charity knew both plays very well and they did not overtax her at all, so when she was not rehearsing and the weather was clement she enjoyed hiring a gig and driving herself around the lanes. She had grown up not fifteen miles from here, in Saltby, and although she determined not to visit the village, nor to go anywhere within her father’s jurisdiction as magistrate, the countryside around Allingford was familiar and welcoming. Her maid did not approve of these solitary outings and tried to dissuade her, but Charity only laughed at her.
‘What harm can come to me if I stay close to Allingford?’
‘There’s highwaymen, for a start,’ retorted Betty. ‘They still haven’t caught the rogue who held us up on the Scarborough Road.’
‘The Dark Rider.’ The rogue who kissed me in this very house.
Charity had neither seen nor heard anything of him since. She had scoured the newspapers for reports of the mysterious highwayman and had spoken to her fellow players about him, but there was no information. However, she had no intention of explaining any of that to her maid.
‘Surely a highwayman will be patrolling the coaching road and I mean to explore the byways. I shall not see him again.’
Charity was not sure she really believed that and even less sure that she wanted it to be true. Betty tried again.
‘You might meet your father.’
That thought was much more alarming. Charity wondered if she had been wise to confide so much about her past to Betty, but the maid had proven herself a good friend over the years. However, Charity would not be dissuaded.
‘I doubt it. And as long as I stay this side of the county line he cannot hurt me.’
Betty frowned, her usually dour countenance becoming positively forbidding.
‘He must know by now that you are in Allingford. Someone will have told him that Charity Weston is appearing at the theatre.’
‘Mayhap he will think it a mere coincidence that an actress has the same name as his daughter.’
‘And mayhap he is planning some mischief.’
‘Nonsense, Betty. It is more than a dozen years since I left Saltby. Phineas has probably forgotten all about me.’
‘Not he, mistress. From all you have told me of the man, he will not rest while you are in Allingford. Your success will be like a thorn in his flesh.’
‘Well, that is a pain he will have to bear,’ said Charity stoutly, ‘because I am not going away.’
Nevertheless, she made sure that when she travelled north or east she kept within the bounds of Allingford, although she felt confident enough to venture farther afield on the other side of the town, and one sunny March day she set out to explore the land to the west. The air was bracing and a covering of snow on the distant hills told her that winter had not yet gone for good, but the blue sky lifted the spirits and Charity was glad to be out of the town. At a crossroads she stopped, debating whether to explore further or to go back to Allingford. After all, it was the first night of a new play tonight and she would need to prepare.
While she was making up her mind, a pedlar came round the corner, leading his donkey laden with leather packs. The gig’s pony snorted and shifted nervously. Charity quieted the animal and pulled a little to the side to allow the pedlar to pass.
He tipped his hat, his bright, beady eyes alight with curiosity.
‘Good day, missus. Hast thou lost tha’ way?’
‘No,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I am exploring and cannot decide which route to take.’
‘Ah, well, then. I tek it tha’s just come from Allingford.’ He stopped and pushed up his hat to scratch his head. ‘If tha’ teks that road to yer right, you’ll reach Kirby Misperton. The way to the left leads to Great Habton. And that track there—’ he pointed to a wide lane bounded on either side by ditches ‘—it looks best o’ the lot, but leads to nobbut Wheelston Hall.’
‘Thank you, that is most enlightening.’
With a toothless grin the pedlar touched his hat again and went on his way. Charity looked at the three lanes before her. She had an hour yet before she needed to turn back. Kirby Misperton, Great Habton—the names were intriguing, but Wheelston.... She frowned slightly, wondering where she had heard the name before.
Then she remembered the quiet stranger who had attended the opening night reception only to leave after the briefest of words with her. Ross Durden. He had said he lived at Wheelston. Of the three lanes before her, the track to the hall was by far the widest and had been well made, but showed signs of neglect with the ditches overgrown and hedges straggling untidily on either side. A prosperous property, perhaps fallen on hard times? She remembered Lady Beverley’s words. There was clearly some sort of mystery about Mr Durden. She set off again.
You cannot drive slap up to someone’s house just because you are curious!
Charity ignored the shocked voice of her conscience and turned the pony. She had set out to explore, so why should she not go this way? The crossroads had no signposts, so it was not unreasonable for her to take the most interesting route.
After what felt like a good half mile she was beginning to wish she had listened to her conscience. An accumulation of cloud had covered the sun, making the air very chill, and a sneaking wind cut through her fur-lined pelisse. The unkempt hedges hid her view and had overgrown the road so much that it was too narrow for her to turn the gig.
‘I shall turn round in the next gateway,’ she said aloud, causing the pony’s ears to prick. ‘Yes, I know,’ she addressed the animal. ‘You want to go back to your warm stable. And I confess that I, too, am beginning to think longingly of my fireside and a hot drink.’
No convenient gateway presented itself and she was obliged to drive on around the bend, only to find herself at the entrance to a substantial property: Wheelston Hall.
It was a rambling, many-gabled house built of grey stone, with a simple portico over the wide door. A curving drive swept around the front of the building, but it was heavily rutted and covered in weeds. Without waiting for Charity to guide him, the pony turned onto a narrower path leading around the side of the house. It was in much better condition and Charity made no effort to restrain the animal as it trotted towards the numerous outbuildings.
Charity found herself in a large cobbled yard; in the far corner someone was chopping wood, but he had his back to her and was unaware of her presence. She guessed from the man’s size and the curling black hair that it was Ross Durden. Despite the icy wind, he wore only his shirt, buckskins and boots, the shirtsleeves rolled up high to display his muscled arms.
He picked up a large log and placed it on the chopping block, then raised the long-handled axe and brought it down on the log in one smooth, powerful arc. She was struck by the fluid grace of the movement, the slight shift of legs and hips, the flutter of his billowing white shirt as his arms circled, the flash of the blade as it cleaved through the air and the satisfying crack as the wood was split asunder and the pieces fell onto the cobbles. One of the logs had rolled behind him, and as he reached around to pick it up, he spotted the gig. He straightened slowly and turned. Tossing the wood into the basket, he began to walk towards her.
For a brief moment Charity wanted to flee, but she fought down her panic. Not only would that be very cowardly behaviour, she doubted she could turn the gig and whip the little pony to a canter in time to get away. The man looked so much larger, so much less civilised than he had done at the theatre. Untamed and rakish was her impression of the man, but that was curiously at odds with his appearance in the green room.
Another memory nagged at her brain, but it was elusive; she could not quite catch it. She forced herself to sit still and watch as this large gentleman with his wild hair and dark, dangerous eyes approached the gig.
‘Mrs Weston.’
The words, uttered deep and slow, sent a quiver running down her spine. There was neither welcome nor enquiry in his tone. It was a mere statement of fact that she was here.
‘Mr Durden. I, um...I was exploring and took this lane quite by chance.’ She gave him a bright smile, but nothing in that harsh, dark face changed.
Foolish girl. You should have stayed away.
She gathered up the reins. ‘I am very sorry. I did not mean to intrude—’
He put out his hand and gripped the pony’s head collar.
‘It is no intrusion, but you are a long way from Allingford.’
