Matthew really should have been concentrating on the fact that his homicidal brother was very likely stalking him and his friends through the inky night. The presence of the two dragoons in the carriage paradoxically increased the chance of violence. Hawley would do anything to avoid capture. Even the pompous arse would understand that he could never emerge unscathed from such a scandal. He might not hang, but he’d never again assume his place in Society.
Yet despite the danger literally chasing them, Matthew had trouble paying attention to the shadows as he sat on top of the carriage box with Mr. Belle. Instead, he could only remember how Charlotte looked as she stood in the middle of the well-lit ballroom and tore off her mask. She hadn’t hesitated one whit, nor had the motion appeared rash. She made the deliberate choice to expose her identity and destroy her flawless reputation.
And Matthew could not be prouder. Charlotte was indeed a marvel. She’d dressed down his brother in a way that no one else had. Ever. But she’d accomplished more than that. Much more. She hadn’t just made a stand against Hawley, she’d made a stand for herself.
Matthew wanted to tell Charlotte how utterly remarkable she’d been, but he’d had no chance. As soon as they’d left the ball, she’d climbed into the carriage with the dragoons. He’d joinedMr. Belle on top to provide a first line of defense for the coach’s occupants. The rest of the group had quickly changed into the attire of highwaymen and were waiting on their own mounts to tail Hawley.
Mr. Belle was driving at a pace slow enough for Hawley to easily overtake them but fast enough not to draw suspicion. Between the horses’ measured gait and the rocking of the high carriage box, the journey seemed deceptively serene.
A shadow detached from the cluster of ash and hemlock. The moon was only a crescent, and little illumination fell on the landscape. Still, it was possible to make out a horse and rider.
“Steady now,” Mr. Belle said. He was speaking to his horses, but Matthew needed to hear the words too. This wasn’t a typical mission. It was too personal on too many overlapping levels. Matthew required his wits, not messy, ill-defined emotions.
He rubbed his thumb against the familiar smooth wood of his gunstock. Tavish had given him the expensive rifled Queen Anne pistol before his first voyage and told him to be safe. It had marked the moment when Matthew had first felt a glimmer of familial acceptance. It had been odd, that feeling of belonging. He’d awkwardly accepted the weapon and boarded the ship without a backward glance. It had taken him crossing an ocean twice to come to terms with the feelings the gift had evoked.
Hawley positioned himself squarely in the middle of the road. A pistol barrel winked in the glow from the coach lanterns. As Mr. Belle pulled back on the reins, he asked Matthew quietly, “Are you at the ready?”
“Aye,” Matthew replied with a bone-deep surety that shocked him. He felt prepared to meet his brother—not just steeled for conflict but ready for it. An emotion that shockingly felt like confidence roared through Matthew. Witnessing Charlotte’s self-assurance had awoken his own.
“Stand and deliv—” Hawley began before the horses even fully stopped.
“Swounds, have you always been this unimaginative?” Matthew asked as he stood up in the box as it rattled to and fro. The bays were still dancing about, but Matthew easily maintained his balance after years of breaking onto ships.
Hawley swung his gun toward Matthew. “How dare you, a mere coachman, criticize me? Do you not realize that I have a pistol?”
It actually didn’t surprise Matthew that Hawley apparently hadn’t recognized his voice. His brother had never allowed him to speak much in his presence, and he’d certainly never listened to Matthew.
Instead of correcting Hawley, Matthew merely lifted his own weapon. “What a shocking coincidence. I also have a weapon.”
“This is a holdup! I am holding up this coach.”
“You don’t appear very good at it,” Matthew goaded him, knowing his brother was too far away for a shot to hit near the carriage. “Are you certain you’ve done this before?”
Hawley pulled the trigger, but as Matthew predicted, the lead ball kicked up dirt a yard away. The horses started to shy, but Mr. Belle expertly calmed them. Matthew stayed upright, his pistol still leveled at his brother.
“That was a warning shot!” Hawley cried, although he’d clearly meant to hit Matthew.
“Was it really?” Matthew asked, judging the distance very carefully as Hawley moved his horse forward.
“Oi!” Mr. Powys, dressed as a brigand, stepped onto the road. His Welsh accent had completely vanished into a deep Cockney one. “I’d claim that ‘stand and deliver’ was my line, but, bugger it, the coachman is right. Only a lobcock would utter that. Do you think you’re in a damn novel, you utter stinking shag bag?”
With a pistol trained on Hawley, Mr. Powys strolled boldly on foot toward the mounted viscount.
“Who are you?” Hawley asked disdainfully, not even bothering to turn around to face Mr. Powys.
“A real highwayman who is bloody tired of some shit-fire nob playing land pirate. These are my hunting grounds.” Mr. Powys was clearly relishing the insults he was tossing at Hawley, perhaps too much.
“You are boring me,” Hawley said drily. “Go away, or I shall have you shot.”
“A real bite in the arse isn’t it? Some nick ninny interfering with your business?” Powys asked.
“Silence, or I will order that you be killed!” Hawley roared. “In fact, men, just sho—.”
A volley of gunfire filled the air. When no lead balls kicked up the earth near the carriage or Mr. Powys, relief flooded Matthew. The shots must be coming from the rest of their group, just as they’d planned. They had succeeded in surrounding Hawley’s men and were now firing on the hidden ruffians.
“How could you bloody addlepates miss this miscreant!” Hawley shouted, whirling around to presumably address his hidden minions. “He is right there. In the middle of the bloody road.”
“Your men are cowering, not firing muskets. I brought along me own mates,” Mr. Powys snickered. “What you heard were warning shots. We’ve got your parcel of jolterheads surrounded.”
