***
Victoria left Finny in the entrance hall waiting for his carriage while she headed in the direction of the retiring room. However, she walked right past that door and made a beeline for the ballroom. She entered at the far end and then slipped out the open doors to the terrace. She felt horrible about leaving Finny without an explanation, but what on earth would she say? Sorry, Finny, but I have to go rob the Duke of Culver. Somehow, she didn’t think that would go over very well.
With a quick glance to her right, then her left, she took off down the stairs that led to the garden. She wove her way through the shrubs and flowers, and eventually found the side gate to the street. She put her fingers into her mouth and whistled loudly. It wasn’t her most ladylike maneuver, but it was the only way to get her driver’s attention—her driver who was a fervent supporter of her work. Within the span of thirty seconds, her carriage stood before her.
“That was fast,” she remarked to Gil as he jumped from the seat to help her inside.
“I saw your old friend, Lord Leyburn, entering the party. I thought you might attempt a different escape route.”
“Well done, Gil. Always keeping your eyes open. I’ll have to make sure Father gives you a raise.”
Gil smiled and bobbed his head. “Thanks, miss. ‘Tis my pleasure to serve.”
With that, he shut the carriage door, leaving Victoria in total darkness. But she didn’t need any light. She’d done this nearly a hundred times now. Her dress had been altered to unbutton down the side rather than the back, and her corset strings were loose enough she could untie them herself and slip the contraption over her head. Beside her on the seat sat her uniform: black trousers, shirt, boots, hat, and, of course, a black mask. It took her only a couple of minutes to outfit herself for her next job, and when she was ready, she opened the small window that allowed her to communicate with Gil.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Almost to the Great North Road, miss. Shall I?”
“Go right ahead.”
At her word, Gil slapped the reins and sent the horses into a full gallop. They had to make up for lost ground, and they certainly wouldn’t do it if they remained at an acceptable speed. Thankfully, the late hour allowed them the pace they required.
Victoria kept her face at the little window so she would know when they approached her victim.
“Coach up ahead, miss. I think it’s the one.”
Victoria removed her opera glasses from her reticule and peered through the window. It was the one.
“Slow down. It’s him.”
Gil slowed the carriage so they were going only just faster than the carriage ahead. As he’d done a hundred times before, he passed the slow-moving conveyance, moved in front of it, and then came to a complete stop. They waited. Only moments passed before the other coachman called out to ask what the hold up was.
“Apologies, sir!” Gil called back. “I fear I may have a broken axel. Might I solicit your help?”
Victoria waited in silence while Gil took care of the coachman. Then she calmly dismounted and made her way to the other carriage. It really had become too easy. Why didn’t other highwaymen—real highwaymen—operate in this way? There would have been a lot less men hanging from Newgate if they did.
Her victim, Lord Culver, stuck his head out the carriage door just as Victoria approached. “What the devil is going on, John?” he yelled.
Of course, John couldn’t answer, being otherwise engaged at the moment, so Victoria decided to indulge him.
“Perhaps you should ask that question of someone who is more knowledgeable of the situation,” Victoria suggested, pitching her voice low to sound more like a young man.
“Who are you?” His voice trembled.
“Who I am is not nearly as important as what I want.” Victoria cocked her pistol and pointed it at the fat man’s head. “Your money or your life.”
There was a pause as the cowardly man did what she assumed most men did in this situation: pissed his trousers.
“Please, sir, I’ve nothing on me.”
“Liar.” Victoria stepped an inch closer.
“Please, don’t shoot. I’ve a family, and . . . and . . .”
“Your money,” Victoria said slowly, lifting a brow, “or your life.”
It was no surprise when the man finally produced a purse filled with coin enough to feed a family of five for several months.
“Ah, I see you’ve found something,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I should shoot you anyway, just for lying to me.” The man whimpered, and Victoria took pity on him before he did more than piss his pants. “But I shall spare your life . . . this time. You will remain in your carriage for five minutes after I depart, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Victoria cocked her head sideways. “You’re lying again, my lord.”
“I swear! I won’t move a muscle for five minutes.”
With that, Victoria turned abruptly and walked briskly back to the carriage. Gil was already sitting back on his box, and John was sufficiently tied up on the side of the road. Even after five minutes, Culver wouldn’t be able to follow them for a good while. Gil’s knots were masterful and took the average man a half hour to figure out. Such was the benefit of having a sailor’s son for a driver.
The unmarked conveyance lurched and set into motion at a more modest pace this time. Racing along at top speed would draw unwanted attention now. They went back in the direction from which they had come, towards Victoria’s home in the Marylebone district. Her parents would surely be asleep by now, which suited her just fine. That way she wouldn’t have to change back into her gown—it was a bit trickier than getting out of it. Besides, she needed to head to bed herself. She had a very important appointment in the morning.
Two
Phineas Dartwell couldn’t believe he’d been duped. Again. Damn Victoria! He was only trying to look out for her, so why did she constantly run from him? If he didn’t know better, he would think she was hiding something.
As it was, he’d known Vickie since she was in nappies. It would be awfully difficult for her to keep anything from him. He might even say he knew her better than he knew himself. These little stunts Vickie pulled were simply her way of rebelling against a horrifically strict upbringing. But one day she would find herself in real trouble. She might have thought it harmless enough to go home alone from a ball late at night, but one never knew what dangers lurked around the corners between Mayfair and Marylebone. It was the rich people that were preyed upon, and one could never be too careful.
Therefore, despite understanding Victoria’s need to rebel every once in a while, he was incredibly irked by her behavior. Foolish girl. There was nothing he could do about it now, though. She’d gone off on her own and was probably tucked soundly in her bed by now. Fin wouldn’t mind being tucked in his own bed, either. He only came to these blasted things for her, anyhow. If she wasn’t around, there was no reason for him to stay. Now that he’d ascertained that she was no longer here, he could get the hell out.
“Leaving already?”
Damn. He’d been so close.
“Lady Beecham,” he said as he turned and offered a bow. “I trust you’re well.”
“I want you to finish the painting, Leyburn.” Clearly, they were going to skip over pleasantries.
“Lady Beecham,” he whispered in an effort to remain discreet, “with all due respect, I cannot finish the painting.”
“I paid you to do a job, and I want it done.”
“I refunded your money, if you remember correctly, and I have told you I don’t do those kinds of paintings. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”
“But I want you to do it.”
Blast, this woman was persistent, but Fin would not be bested by her. The last thing he wanted to do was portray this woman—this married woman—without any clothes on. The problem was that she’d convinced him to start with her head, and on
ce he’d finished, she insisted he paint the rest of her nude. He’d never fall for that one again. “Good night, my lady. Best of luck in your search.”
Fin left the brazen woman standing dumbfounded in the foyer. He was sure there weren’t many who had the gall to speak to her in such a way. Her husband held a fair amount of power, after all. However, Fin was sure Lord Beecham wouldn’t be hearing about this particular offense against his wife.
A painting that was calling to him this evening, though—one inspired by his dear friend’s attempt at freedom. Victoria had asked him to paint her ages ago, but he’d been putting it off for some time. But that defiant look in her eyes from earlier tonight was burned into his brain. He couldn’t think of a better subject at the moment.
He left the party and headed for home, where his easel and paints and a stubborn young woman awaited him.