Page 20 of Her Wily Duke

“The real question,” said Walham, “will be what Lord Whitewell truly thinks of all this, after he has had time to fully consider the situation. I can’t help feeling that some part of him is rejoicing to learn that a masked bandit is riding through his brother’s woods, stealing his brother’s money, and stirring hope in the tired souls of his brother’s servants. I suspect that he’s reached the stage where anything that prevents his brother from wasting any more of the estate’s wealth seems good to him. Between his quarrels with the Duke and the advent of this phantom, we may be seeing the end of Foxridge Park as we have known it.”

“And not a moment too soon,” said Wiggins, in a voice so low it was scarcely audible.

*****

Adam returned to his rooms, and settled into a chair, now far too awake to simply lie down and sleep. He sipped a brandy as he considered the events of the day.

Frederick was livid – he had never before seen his brother quite this angry – but Frederick was also rather powerless in the face of the highwayman. And Adam couldn’t but see that as a good thing – not the loss of the money, although it was sensible to ask just what a highwayman might do with so much, especially in a quiet rural area like this. Any excess spending by almost anyone would be noticed – but Frederick having to cut back on his excesses, because he dare not access his own funds, would be a desirable outcome.

Not that he thought Frederick to be that afraid yet. But if there was another theft of money in transit, then Frederick might well reach that stage. Adam smiled to himself, almost grimly. It would, he thought, be a matter of time, of waiting to see what Frederick would choose to do, even as they carefully spoke to anyone who might be able to provide clues as to the highwayman’s identity.

For now, he was almost certain that there was no one at all who could provide any information which might lead to the highwayman.

Chapter Eight

The villagers and farmers began to whisper of the highwayman, superstitiously, calling him the Wily Black Fox returned – even though the original highwayman who had borne that sobriquet would have been over ninety had he still lived, for his exploits had been so long ago.

During the next few weeks, the Duke was so preoccupied by his attempts to capture the Masked Rider, whatever name he might go by — who had been spotted on several occasions, and whose robberies continued, in spite of his best efforts — that he failed to notice another situation taking place right under his nose.

One Friday afternoon in early December Emme was on her way upstairs to the second floor when she met Lord Whitewell coming down. He was a carrying a stack of papers in one hand, and was so absorbed in reading it that he only narrowly avoided a collision with Emme on the first landing. She coughed to announce herself and he swerved out of the way to let her pass, dropping most of the papers in the process. Unfortunately, she began moving in the same direction, and for some moments the two were at an impasse. For an instant, as embarrassment held her locked in place, it looked like Emme might be late for her appointment.

However, Lord Whitewell, analytical as ever, soon reached a solution.

“I shall pause here,” he said, leaning on the balustrade with an air of embarrassment which matched hers, “until you’ve passed. And then I’ll continue on my way.”

Emme edged past him and resumed her climb. She had almost reached the top of the stairs when she felt a pang of guilt. It was a curious thing - the fact that their brief meeting had ended on a note of anti-climax disappointed her.

Slowly she turned her head around to see if Lord Whitewell had left. As it happened, he was still gathering some of the loose papers off the steps where they had fallen.

She wavered at the top of the stairs. To go back would almost certainly risk her being late for Lady Caroline’s lesson. Yet, foolish as the thought was, she felt some responsibility for the loss of his papers and wanted to help him retrieve them. She went back.

“Don’t you have a lesson to attend to?” said Lord Whitewell, though not in an unkind voice.

Emme tugged at her paisley shawl and smiled shyly.

“I shall make up some excuse, my Lord,” she said. “I was delayed in getting here — which is very much true.”

Lord Whitewell grimaced.

“Just hope that Frederick doesn’t ask you to relate the circumstances,” he said. “The weather being as bad as it is, I’m amazed that you were able to arrive when you did.”

Emme blushed.

“Since the weather has cooled,” she said, “I have been in the habit of leaving home a few minutes earlier than usual, to compensate for the rough walking conditions.”

“What?!” said Adam with wide eyes. “You mean to say you’ve been walking to Foxridge Park in the coldest weather, with nothing but a bonnet and the thinnest of pelisses to shield you?”

“Well, the pelisse is lined with fur,” said Emme, “and much warmer than it looks. Plus, there’s something very grand about walking through a world made of ice. It’s like Mr. Coleridge’s rhyme” — she chose to refer to the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which features a whole kingdom of ice. “Very Gothic and sublime.”

Lord Whitewell nodded understandingly.

“You like that sort of thing, do you?”

Emme’s eyes brightened considerably.

“I love feeling like I’m standing on a mountain, or traversing a glacier at the far edge of the world.”

“I think we’ve all known the feeling from time to time, though perhaps not all of us so keenly as you. In fact, given your enthusiasm for the subject, it almost pains me to ask whether you should like to be driven back to your house after today’s lesson?”