“It’s true, guv!” one of Hawley’s men called out.
“Impossible!” Hawley had completely lost his temper now.
“Are you certain you are actually a brigand?” Matthew asked. “You seem like a novice. The other fellow is much more convincing.”
“I most certainly am a highwayman!” Hawley shouted as heurged his mount toward the coach. “I held up more than fifty coaches last year alone.”
“Successfully?” Matthew queried.
“Yes!” Hawley snarled. “And I’ve killed at least two coachmen who refused to listen.”
“Truly?” Matthew asked as he readied to pull his own trigger. Hawley was in range now—at least for Matthew’s carefully crafted Queen Anne.
“Easy,” Mr. Belle whispered so only Matthew could hear. “I know you want a confession, but you don’t want to be the victim of the murder he ends up swinging for.”
“I dispatched Lord Everett’s man. Two shots to the chest—one with each pistol. He didn’t have the decency to die on the first one and had the bollocks to try to fire his longarm! I also killed Lady Harscard’s tiger. I simply didn’t like the look of him.” Hawley had always loved to brag about the violence he’d committed. It was a wonder the egotist had kept his nighttime activities clandestine for as long as he had.
Hawley grew so caught up in crowing that the wrist of his gun hand went limp. The barrel pointed vaguely toward a stone wall as it otherwise bobbled about like a duck on a choppy lake. Throughout the maniac rant, Hawley drifted closer and closer to the carriage. Matthew doubted his brother even noticed his forward momentum, but Matthew definitely took stock.
Because Hawley’s next shot wouldn’t miss.
Yet Matthew didn’t feel the metallic bite of fear—just cool, calm vigilance and a wee dram of triumph. Matthew had goaded his misbegotten brother into confessing to two cold-blooded murders, and the dragoons secreted in the carriage had heard every word. Charlotte would be truly free of the man—and maybe, just maybe, so would Matthew.
“It is ironic, isn’t it,” Matthew said. “Father spent so many years thinking I was the evil, wicked creature in the family when all along you’ve been the twisted, diabolical one.”
“Matthew?” Hawley’s body—outlined by the glow of the coach’s lanterns—stiffened in shock and then doubled over as a fit of cruel laughter poured from him. “Is that actually you up there, Mat? Thinking you can threaten me? Why, you piece of shite!”
Hawley straightened and started to right his floundering pistol. Before he could, a bang rang out, and the viscount’s hat flew off. With the precision of the shot, it had to be the work of Alexander. Hawley’s horse reared, but he managed to hold on.
“I am your brother, and for once, you need to listen to me,” Matthew said in a steady voice that matched the surprising calmness inside him. “That shot—that was made by Alexander, who is very keen to put a lead ball in your black heart. But given we’re in the presence of two of His Majesty’s dragoons, he is showing restraint.”
Hawley frantically tried to steady his horse while glancing wildly about him. The mention of the soldiers drove two frenzied mounted figures from the copse of trees, whipping their horses’ flanks with their reins, while another of Hawley’s minions emerged from behind the stone wall on the other side of the road. All of them fled, spurring their horses over hedges and across the field.
“Those would be your mates,” Matthew said calmly as he heard the carriage door open. “Mine are the ones who aren’t scampering off.”
Hawley had always been surrounded by cronies. But in hindsight, all those friends immediately disappeared at the first whiff of trouble.
But Matthew knew his comrades would never abandon him, even if it meant putting themselves in danger. It wasn’t becauseMatthew had a title or a fortune to inherit. He’d earned their friendship and respect. And that realization gave Matthew a strength he’d never realized he possessed.
Hawley, in contrast, appeared to be discovering just how precarious his own situation was. He managed to control his mount enough to swing the beast in the direction of his retreating men. The dragoons, however, cut off his intended route, their pistols drawn. Hawley spurred his horse away from the soldiers and back toward the carriage.
Matthew’s heart jumped. Although Alexander and the Wick cousins would likely stop him, his capture wasn’t a certainty. While Hawley might have confessed in the presence of the dragoons, they needed to catch and unmask him now, before he could leave the scene and plead mistaken identity.
Matthew sprang from the carriage box. He flew through the air and then slammed into his brother’s back. The force sent them both crashing to the ground. With a terrified whinny, the horse reared, pawing the air above their heads. Hawley shouted a stream of invectives. Although the words were defiant, his voice sounded even more frightened than the equine’s shrill neighing.
Matthew clung to his brother as the viscount frantically tried to wriggle and punch his way free. It was odd, Hawley being the one who wished so desperately to escape.
“Damn you, let go of me!” Hawley raged, striking out with his fists and his feet. Matthew strategically moved his body into Hawley’s flailing limbs as he subdued him. Dragging his brother to his feet, Matthew once again yanked Hawley’s arm behind his back.
Matthew was the one in control now.
The dragoons hurried over, and Matthew released his brother into their custody. The men grabbed Hawley’s arms, and the viscount thrashed like a caged badger. His lips below his mask curled back to show his teeth, and spittle flew from his mouth.
“Do you want the privilege of unmasking him?” one of the soldiers asked.
“No,” Matthew said without hesitation. “That honor belongs to Lady Charlotte. This was her brilliant ploy. She is owed all the credit for exposing my brother’s crimes.”
Charlotte, who’d been standing outside the coach with the rest of their friends, moved forward, the hem of her golden robe rustling in the wind. Queen Elizabeth herself could not have walked with such purposeful grace.
