Free The Highwayman's Mistress by Francine Howarth

But
please, promise me, promise you will not commit highway robbery
again. Not for my sake, for Leohne’s sake.”
      “I promise,” he said, dabbing his wound with
a drying cloth. “In the chest drawer. Top one. There’s more binding. I cannot,
however, promise against return to that of government spy.”
      “At least that is honourable, even if of a
secretive nature.” She retrieved a fresh bandage for him, and rebound his
shoulder. “That’s better, now let’s get you dressed again. Where do you keep
clean shirts? ”
      “Third drawer down of chest. “He caught her
arm, preventing movement. “Have you wondered how Francois has acquired riches
so quickly?”
      She met his blue eyes, sense of dread
gripping her. “He did bring jewels and a few silver and gold items with him,
which he sold in London.”
      “Not enough to rent a substantial house and
land let alone purchase such.”
      It was the time, the moment to reveal her
thoughts. “I am of mind he’s a highwayman, and I had thought the man shot today
to be him not you. I’ve been frantic all evening fearing the worst, and now
here I am with the stark truth that our local highwayman is indeed yourself.”
      He let slip her arm, said, “There’s a
highwayman who has robbed numerous coaches betwixt Oxford, London and Newbury.
No one has been murdered, but it is said he has a strange accent.”
      “Could it be Francois? His accent would be
considered strange.”
      “I don’t know, Diamonta, but I do know his
visits to London match those of reported robberies, and I know he’s renting a
small gentleman’s residence with paddocks in Faringdon.”
      Her heart sank as she hurried to retrieve a
clean shirt for Richard. “How do you know he’s renting a house?”
      “Let’s just say I became suspicious on
rumours heard, and searched his bed chamber here in the house. Given what I
discovered, it all seemed to fit with what I had suspected, that he’s the
highwayman.”
      “I have feared it, and know not what to do,”
she said holding Richard’s clean shirt open in order to assist slipping his
injured shoulder in with ease. “Can you manage, now, only I think I ought to go
below stairs before we’re missed and mother organises a search party.”
      “At a fashion,” he replied, emerging through
neck aperture with big grin on his face. “You’re right. Go or Leohne might
think my heart has lain at your feet all these years as she once accused to be
the case.”
      “That’s silly, we’ve only ever been
friends,” she said, making haste for the bedchamber door.
      “Not always, Diamonta. I did at one time
hope you might look on me with favour, but alas you never did.”
      “I’ve always loved you as I love Charles,
nothing will change that, and I’m thrilled you’ve found love with Leohne.”
      She fled sense of sorrow about her
indifference to Richard in a romantic sense, whilst fearing for Francois’
safety.
    ~~
    Having reached
the top of the gallery leading to the staircase, below in the hall a terrible
disturbance and raised voices could be heard, and then, “Move one step and I
shoot.”
      Utter hushed silence befell the ground floor
and her heart dived, for it was Francois. Even the music had stopped. She
glanced over the balustrade, and there he was in Richard’s old riding cloak,
hat on head, pistols in hand and slowly backing toward the main entrance door.
      “I tell you,” said a man. “He’s the one. I
swear, swear I recognise him.”
      “Who else could he be?” said Lady Fortnum,
her croaky voice unmistakable as she further said, “Somebody, do something. Rush the wicked fellow.”
      “You’re the one with a stick, Madam,” said a
raucous male voice.
      Her mother stepped forward, her voice cold
as ice. “So. You are Jacques de Boviere’s son, and Le Compte of Saint Mont
Marche”
      “A count?” yelled Lady Fortnum. “ A count?
What kind of count resorts to highway