Free A Highwayman Came Riding by Joan Smith

companion of a duchess was treated with respect. The George and Dragon did not get many noble customers.
    “Have a seat while you are waiting, ma’am,” he said, indicating a row of aging upholstered chairs by the wall.
    She sat down and entertained herself by watching the guests come and go. It was strange they were all couples, mostly youngish. There were no older pairs, no families with children, no old bachelors or spinsters. Perhaps there was some sort of party going on. She was still there five minutes later when the front door opened and Macheath stepped in.
    He was dressed for evening in a bronze velvet jacket with a tumble of lace at the cuffs and looked not only handsome but distinguished beside the other guests. A certain air of dignity, of what she could only call breeding, hung about him. It was there not only in his toilette but in his walk, which was self-confident without being a swagger. In the folds of his cravat a yellow stone, topaz or yellow diamond, twinkled. A long greatcoat the color of sand, cut in the new Spanish style called a Wellington mantle after the hero of the Peninsular War, lay open. Another change of clothes confirmed that he lived nearby. When he saw her, Macheath stopped and stared, then rushed forward.
    “Miss Harkness! What are you doing down here alone? I hope nothing is wrong.”
    “No indeed, Captain. I came to pick up a journal to read to the duchess. I am just waiting for word on how the carriage and team are doing.”
    “You shouldn’t be alone in a place like this.”
    “But it is a perfectly respectable inn—is it not?”
    “It is not exactly the Clarendon,” he said, mentioning one of the finer London hotels. “I shall stay with you until the clerk returns. I daresay the duchess is eager to be on her way, eh?”
    “She is. I would have thought you would be gone long since yourself, Captain. This cannot be a healthy place for you.”
    “I came to have a word with Her Grace before leaving. Has she reported me to the constable yet?” He didn’t sound frightened, only curious.
    “She plans to do it first thing in the morning, before we leave.”
    “Why did she wait?”
    “I believe she wanted to speak to you before doing it.”
    “I’ll have a word with her now—as soon as the clerk returns.”
    The clerk returned shortly to report that the carriage was not damaged and the horse’s leg had been poulticed. Beeton felt that it could continue on its way tomorrow, if he went at a slow pace.
    “Shall we go upstairs now?” Macheath said and took Marianne’s arm to accompany her across the lobby.
    A few heads turned to watch the young couple. For the thirty seconds it took to traverse the lobby, Marianne felt like one of the fortunate ladies she had been envying, with a handsome beau or husband on her arm.
    “You didn’t tell me whether you enjoyed your tea, Miss Harkness,” Macheath said with a quizzing smile.
    “Why did you change my order?”
    “You are too young and innocent for the dissipation of brandy. That is a brew for scoundrels— and duchesses. I felt I might be the cause of it. I have enough regrets, without that,” he said rather wistfully.
    His tone and the way he looked at her suggested he was sorry for the trouble he had caused her. She waited a moment, but when he didn’t say more, she tapped on the duchess’s door and stepped in. The duchess’s health had deteriorated further since Marianne had left. Her face, twisted into a grimace of pain, was a ghastly gray shade. The blankets were in a knot as she writhed on the bed.
    “Oh my God! She’shad an attack!”
    Macheath took one searching look at her and said, “No, she’s sick to her stomach.”
    He grabbed the tin wastebasket by the desk and rushed forward. He helped the duchess into a sitting position as she leaned over the basket and cast up her accounts. When she had emptied her stomach, she collapsed against the pillows to catch her breath.
    “I have been poisoned,” she said