A plan formed. Winnie would ride to the river, find Lex and Basil, and unburden herself. She would plead for Lex’s forgiveness and tell him everything—why she became the Lace Bandit, what it had meant, and why she’d never do it again. Surely, he would understand.
They had both wanted to help those in need. Theysharedthat passion.
Surely that would count for something. Certainly,hewould see the woman behind the mask.
She closed her eyes, heart pounding. It had to work. Tomorrow was her chance.
Shewouldride to him.
Shewouldtell the truth.
Shewouldfight like hell to convince him how much she loved him and how much she would always love him.
It was aglorious morning—sun dappled, with a hint of a breeze—and Winnie rode out cloaked in mystery and mischief.
Dressed in her full highwaywoman’s garb, she had slipped awayfrom Wiltshire House in the early dawn, well before Felicia had stirred from her rooms. Though she hadn’t ridden since the accident, she trusted her beloved Masquerade implicitly. The dapple-gray gelding moved with the grace and surefootedness of a dancer, and she felt safe atop his familiar back.
Not until she crossed into Essex and reached the banks of the River Lea did she don the lace mask. That final touch transformed her into the infamous figure whispered about in drawing rooms and among startled coachmen—the Lace Bandit.
Her plan was simple. Foolproof, really.
She would find the marquess and the earl during their weekly ride. She’d intercept them, stage a mock robbery—something quick and cheeky—and then reveal herself with a dramatic flourish. Surely, they would laugh. Surely, they would see the humor in it. She’d return whatever coin she managed to “steal,” explain her reasons, and hope for forgiveness. After all, she was a sort of modern-day Robin Hood, wasn’t she? Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor—it was noble in its way. Lex would see that. Basil would likely find it hilarious.
In her fanciful daydream, they would all share a hearty laugh. Lex would sweep her into his arms, profess his love once more, and they would ride back to Wiltshire House together. That same afternoon, he’d ask her grandmother for her hand, the banns would be posted, and soon, they’d be wed—dividing their time between his estate and hers, building a life together.
She trotted along the winding river path, utterly lost in her fantasy.
The sunshine filtered through the trees in golden beams. Bees hummed lazily in the underbrush, and birds chirped their lively songs in the branches overhead. Her lace mask fluttered slightly with the breeze. She wore it with pride. This was her moment. Her storybook ending.
And though she was alone, she wasn’t unarmed. She always rode with her pistol, and today was no exception. Her father had trained herwell. She was an expert marksman, her aim as steady and true as any man’s, if not better.
Up ahead, a large fallen tree blocked the trail.
Winnie pulled gently on the reins, guiding Masquerade off the river path and into a grove of trees where the terrain sloped gently upward. She barely had time to register the sound of hooves before they were upon her.
Men. Six of them. Mounted. Armed.
They surrounded her in a tight circle, weapons drawn. Masquerade reared with a shrill cry, pawing the air. Winnie let out a startled scream, clutching his mane as the world tilted beneath her. She fought for balance, murmuring calm words until, finally, the horse’s hooves returned to solid earth, though he continued to prance anxiously sensing danger.
The men hooted and shouted, congratulating themselves as if they’d just bagged a prize stag.
“We’ve got you now, missy! Your days of robbin’ are over,” one of them crowed.
“A shame, really,” said a bearded Scotsman with a crooked grin. “To see such a fine neck stretched on the gallows. But you brought it on yourself.”
Six against one.
Winnie’s mouth was dry. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. But she refused to let them see her fear. “What are youtalkingabout? Howdareyou accost a lady out for a quiet ride along the river? Can a woman not enjoy the morning without being attacked by armed strangers?”
“We’re no bandits,” the bearded man replied. “We’ve been hired to captureyou.” His eyes narrowed. “You, m’lady, are the Lace Bandit. The infamous highwaywoman terrorizing these roads. But not for much longer.”
“That’s absurd,” she said coolly. “You have no proof. I wear amask forsafety, not disguise.”
They laughed—a grating, ugly sound that rang through the clearing.
“Ye’re just as described. A woman dressed as a man, wearing a lace mask, bold as brass and twice as foolish. We’ve no doubt who ye are. We’re taking you in. There’s a price on that pretty head of yers, and we mean to collect it.”
Her blood ran cold.No. This isn’t how the story ends.
