Free The Highwayman's Daughter by Henriette Gyland

sir,’ said the milliner, obsequiousness replaced by genuine horror. ‘It would seem this town is beleaguered by marauders and footpads roaming the Heath. Something ought to be done about it.’
    ‘Oh, believe me, something will,’ muttered Rupert.
    He perused the rolls of fabric in the shop, which as well as supplying hats sold fashionable materials for clothing. His gaze fell on a roll of luxurious brocade silk and he was reminded that the highwaywoman had more than just ruined his hat; the wench had also stolen his new waistcoat.
    Clenching his fists, he said, ‘Just give me a hat. Dark felt. Anything you have in store.’
    The man bowed and returned with a small number of ready-made hats. Rupert took one and inspected himself in a mirror. The burgundy tricorne was passable enough and sat well on his powdered wig, which he had tied with a black ribbon. It was better than he had expected.
    ‘Very well, I’ll take it.’ He made arrangements for the bill to be sent to Lampton Hall and then made his way to the nearest tailor. There he ordered a cream cotton waistcoat tamboured with silk and silver thread, and while he was at it a new formal day coat of felted wool and silver-gilt buttons.
    Reasonably pleased with his purchases, he was about to leave the shop when a thought occurred to him. The highwaywoman would very likely have no use for a silk brocade waistcoat. She could turn a pretty penny if she sold it to a fence, and in a town the size of Hounslow there was bound to be a market for second-hand clothing, whether stolen or not.
    He turned back to the tailor. ‘Where would I find second-hand clothing in this town?’
    The man sent him a curious look: he had, after all, just spent a small fortune on a brand new coat and waistcoat.
    ‘Well, sir, sometimes old clothes find their ways to the market, but that’s a bit sporadic. If you’re after a more permanent outlet, there’s York’s establishment down beyond the smithy, although I must add this would be an unlikely place for a fine gentleman such as yourself to be visiting.’
    ‘Just give me the address, man, and let me be the judge of that,’ Rupert snapped.
    The man rattled off an address which was indeed in the less salubrious part of town, and Rupert left the shop.
    He found the place easily enough, tucked away from the main road. Barefoot children were playing in the dirt, two drunks were engaged in a slurred debate and a shifty-looking character followed Rupert’s entry to the alleyway from under hooded eyelids. Rupert squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.
    A bell clanged discordantly as he entered the shop, and immediately he was assailed by the odours of what seemed like mountains of unwashed clothing. He resisted the temptation to cover his nose with his handkerchief; he had come here for information, and causing offence to the proprietor from the start would obviously not be advisable.
    Proprietress, as it turned out.
    From behind a ragged curtain at the back of the shop appeared the strangest woman he had ever seen. She may have been pretty in her heyday, perhaps even a fêted beauty, or the mistress of a gentleman, but years of hard living and debauchery had ravaged her face and caused her body to sag in the most unattractive of places. The woman was wearing an unfashionable raspberry-red mantua gown, which had once been exquisitely embroidered with silver thread, but was now distinctly tatty. Rupert judged her to be no older than his aunt, the Countess of Lampton, or possibly even a little younger.
    This hardly mattered. He hadn’t come here seeking female company, but was in search of information. A little carefully applied charm would never go amiss.
    ‘Mistress,’ he said and bowed deeply, ‘how fare you on this fine morning?’
    ‘I fare well enough, kind sir, and even more so now due to your esteemed visit. How may I be of assistance to you?’
    Rupert smiled. He had been right in his initial assessment; the woman had once