The highwaymans letter, p.1
The Highwayman's Letter, page 1
The Highwayman’s Letter © 2021 by Martha Keyes. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover design by Martha Keyes and Ashtyn Newbold.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Martha Keyes
http://www.marthakeyes.com
To my husband, Brandon, who stole my heart with letters—even if there weren’t nearly as many as I would have liked
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Sons of Somerset
Acknowledgments
Author Note
Other titles by Martha Keyes
About the Author
Chapter One
“Praise the heavens! A bee!”
Joanna Carmichael raised a brow, watching Sir Leonard Elkins clap with a childlike glee that belied his three-and-thirty years as a bee emerged from the nearest primrose.
“Spread your wings, little one,” he said as it hovered for a moment. “Your time has finally come.” He smiled with a look of deep satisfaction as he followed its zig-zagging progress away from them and toward the wickets being placed in the sprawling field in front of Briarwood Estate, where the cricket match would shortly be played.
“Splendid, my dear,” said his mother, Lady Elkins, in the most matronly tone Joanna had heard used with a full-grown adult. “Cause for celebration, I am sure. But let us not forget the introduction.”
Sir Leonard had stooped to sniff the cheddar pink the bee had been visiting, but he stood straight at his mother’s words and, blinking, faced Joanna, who stood beside her younger sister and parents.
Joanna didn’t dare glance at her sister, Frances. She could already imagine her sister’s expression. It would betray everything she was feeling, just as it always did, and once Frances’s face showed her emotion, her mouth was never far behind.
On the journey from Bath to Briarwood, that mouth had filled the carriage with talk of the infamous highwayman plaguing the roads of north Somerset, until their father had been unable to bear the silliness, as he called it, any longer. Joanna might have been grateful for her father’s intervention except that it was followed by Frances’s whispered speculation on the hair color and height of Joanna’s intended. It had been the last thing Joanna needed as she fought her own anxiety at the prospect of meeting the man she would likely marry.
So, Joanna strategically avoided Frances’s eye now that Sir Leonard stood before them in all his glory: an inch shorter—and a few inches narrower—than Joanna, with a jaw that hung somewhat slack and blond hair that was swept forward in a manner Caesar himself would have envied. He seemed like the sort of man to take himself far too seriously, and Joanna felt misgiving settle into the pit of her stomach.
Sir Leonard’s nose twitched suddenly, and Joanna bit her cheek at the sight of yellow pollen on the tip. She couldn’t decide whether it was endearing or ridiculous.
She ignored the elbow Frances nudged into her side and smiled at Sir Leonard. He returned a smile of his own, and Joanna felt herself relax at its genuineness. She could abide a bit of eccentricity as long as it was not accompanied by arrogance.
“Sir Leonard and Lady Elkins,” Joanna’s father said, “you are already acquainted with my wife, Lady Sandford, but allow me to introduce you to my daughters, Miss Joanna Carmichael and Miss Frances.”
Lady Elkins’ gaze was fixed on Joanna as she greeted both of them, and Joanna had the distinct feeling of being measured up. That was normal. It was natural that Sir Leonard and his mother should be as curious about Joanna as she herself was about them.
When she rose from her curtsy, a significant look from Lady Elkins at her son was followed by his shuffling forward and putting out a hand in invitation for Joanna to give him hers. Trying not to betray her surprise, she did so, and Sir Leonard placed a chaste kiss upon the back of her glove. It might have been a romantic gesture if not for the rehearsed nature of it—and the way Sir Leonard’s eyes jumped to his mother for approval. There was no need for the gesture. Joanna didn’t aspire to a love match, and she certainly hoped that was not Sir Leonard’s expectation. She glanced at her father questioningly, but he himself was blinking in surprise.
An awkward silence followed the kiss, and Joanna clasped her hands before her, clearing her throat. “How wonderful it is to see sunshine after a spell of gray and rain.” It was an admittedly desperate reach for any conversation; Joanna was partial to cool weather and a sky covered in clouds.
“Indeed,” Sir Leonard said, apparently pleased with her weak attempt at conversation. “Warm enough to coax our treasured Apis mellifera from its cozy hive.”
“My son takes a special interest in bees,” Lady Elkins explained unnecessarily. “He has been looking for their emergence for some weeks now.”
Sir Leonard nodded, his eyes on the nearest flowers again, and he rocked from side to side as he peered at them hopefully.
“How dull your winters must be,” Frances said.
“My dear,” Lady Elkins said with a hint of condescension, “surely you are aware that winter is a time of pivotal importance for the honeybee.”
Frances’s brows rose. “I was not aware.”
Apparently sensing his knowledge was required, Sir Leonard’s attention returned to them. “Oh, yes. They remain in the hive, huddled together and fluttering to keep warm, clustered, of course, around the queen.” His eyes flitted to Joanna, and she was immediately aware that Frances had not missed the brief glance, for she emitted a laugh, which quickly turned into a cough.
Joanna grasped for a new line of conversation, looking to the wickets in the background. “Do you play today, Sir Leonard?” He did not look like the sort of man who engaged in any type of sport.
“Leonard is an excellent cricket player,” Lady Elkins said, as though the suggestion that he might not be playing was one that needed to be addressed and routed immediately.
“Mother says I am an excellent cricket player,” Sir Leonard repeated.
Joanna smiled. “I do not doubt it.” Lady Elkins was not thus far a likable woman, but Joanna was determined not to let that deter her. Some people needed to be won over, and Joanna was confident that she was capable of it. This was the match her father wished for—a desirable connection between two well-established families—and she would do everything in her power to ensure its success. It was the sensible thing, after all, and Joanna was nothing if not sensible.
“I do my best,” Sir Leonard said humbly. He straightened suddenly, his gaze locked on something behind Joanna. “Ah! There is Lord Ryecombe. I must speak with him before the match begins.” He leaned toward his mother. “With a willow or two on the estate, he might attract both Andrena cineraria and Andrena fulva.” He turned toward Joanna. “I shall hope for the opportunity to speak with you after the match, Miss Carmichael.” He bowed to her and then to the rest of her family.
Lady Elkins gave a slight nod of the head and took her son’s arm, accompanying him in the direction of Lord Ryecombe.
Joanna could feel her family’s eyes on her, the air thick with silence, and she hurried to fill the pause. “I rather think we should find some seats before they are all taken. Do you not agree? I imagine you are tired, Mama.” She certainly looked it. She hadn’t said anything beyond her initial greeting to the Elkinses. Joanna and her father were hoping her mother’s time in Bath would strengthen her after the particularly fierce period of fever she had experienced a few weeks since.
“A bit tired,” her mother admitted, her quiet but shrewd eyes upon Joanna.
“Mama and Papa can find us seats,” Frances said, taking Joanna’s arm, “while we find some refreshment.”
Joanna allowed herself to be pulled toward the tents, resigning herself to her sister’s determined conversation. Joanna would have liked more time to mull over the implications of the last few minutes—they were certainly far-reaching. And full of bees. But Frances would not be able to contain herself after the encounter with the Elkinses, and she was not one to wait. She was nearly six years Joanna’s junior, but she had always been the sort to take charge and pursue exactly what she wanted.
“Well,” she said significantly as they made their way toward the tents, “that was enlightening, was it not? I would complain about what a bore the day is likely to be, but now that I see what your entire life shall be like, I would never dare.”
“Oh, hush, Frances,” said Joanna, feeling suddenly snappish as they reached the shade of the tents. In truth, she was feeling a bit deflated after meeting Sir Leonard. She had taken such a firm stance on making a sensible match that she hadn’t truly considered the type of personality Sir Leonard might have.
There was an array of desserts—sponge cake, plum cake, strawberry turnovers, cherry and lemon tarts—spread upon the table before them. A man with his back turned to them stood on the opposite side of the table, sipping from a cup.
“Sir Leonard was perfectly amiable,” Joanna said.
Frances let out something akin to a snort, and the man glanced over his shoulder. His clothing proclaimed him to be a man of small means, and his stature made Joanna guess that he would be playing cricket on the team made up of laborers. If the rest of the players on his team were built upon such lines, and if the opposing team of gentlemen was built upon Sir Leonard’s lines, there was no doubt at all who would win.
Frances took a plate and began to fill it with pastries. “And you wish for your betrothed to be perfectly amiable?”
“He is not my betrothed,” Joanna corrected, though she immediately regretted it. Frances was trying to provoke her, and refining too much upon her word choice was only giving her her way.
“He soon shall be, though. Unless”—Frances’s hand hovered over a lemon tart—“you wish for me to intervene. There is still time to do better than perfectly amiable, Jo.”
Joanna laughed as she took a plate of her own in hand. Frances was a romantic, and she was determined that Joanna should become one, too. “Have you someone particular in mind, then?”
Frances shrugged. “Someone more exciting, at the very least—someone who will give you adventure rather than lecturing you on the winter habits of Apis meffiffly-whatever. Someone a bit dashing, even.”
Joanna shot her a look. “Someone like your precious Paladin, for instance? Is that who you would choose for my husband? If so, I think I shall forgo your assistance.”
Frances stopped and looked at her, brows knit. “Certainly not the Paladin.” She shifted the plum cake to make room for a turnover. “He would be wasted upon you—you have no appreciation for him. No, I reserve the Paladin for myself, of course.”
Joanna gave a scoffing laugh. “If you can convince Father to allow such a match, I wish you joy of your highwayman—and your future in gaol together. How very romantic that sounds.”
“Nonsense. Gaol is no place for the Paladin.”
“And yet, that is certainly where he shall wind up,” Joanna said dryly.
Frances shook her head. “He is far too intelligent—and far too handsome—to be caught.”
“Assuming, of course, that your bias for attractive men is shared by constables and justices. Besides, what evidence have you of said intelligence or good looks? Personal experience, no doubt?”
Frances sighed. “If only! I was very disappointed indeed that we were not waylaid on the way here.”
Joanna raised a brow. “It would be a particularly obtuse highwayman, not an intelligent one, who held up a carriage in the light of day, Fran. In any case, he is bound to make a mistake, and I suspect you shall think him much less worthy of admiration when he is clapped in irons and peering at you out of a dirty cell in Newgate—or even if you could see him right now, for that matter. He is likely sprawled and unconscious on the floor of some tavern out of which he shall be thrown for inability to pay.”
“He is doing nothing of the sort!” she said hotly. “For my part, I suspect he is a man of substance—perhaps even titled—but certainly bored of his mundane existence and in need of adventure.” She sighed. “And love.”
Joanna stifled an eye roll and set another tart on her plate. “And this is why he kisses every woman he meets during his exploits?” What Frances found enticing in a man who so widely distributed his favors amongst woman was a mystery.
“Can you imagine it?” Frances said, and her gaze grew wistful. “Being kissed by the Paladin? The mere thought is so romantic, I might expire right here.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and made as if to fall back into Joanna’s arms.
Joanna pushed her away. “Good gracious, Frances. You are precisely the type of young lady rakes prey on. If you insist on conjuring up such visions, there is nothing I can do to prevent you, of course, but pray keep them to yourself in front of Lady Elkins. I suspect she will force Sir Leonard to run for the hills if she discovers your plans with the Paladin.”
Frances seemed to come out of her reverie, and her nose scrunched up. “She certainly looks to be strait-laced—not at all amiable. But the Paladin is not a rake, Jo. I am certain of it.”
“Certain of it because it aligns with your personal preference?” Joanna said.
“No, because all the reports insist that he is a gentleman.” Frances moved around toward the other side of the table, and the man moved out of her way. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over a face equipped with a fine jaw with a hint of stubble upon it. His gaze flitted from Frances to Joanna, where it lingered a moment before returning to his cup.
Had he been listening to their conversation? She could hardly blame him for it, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye that put up her hackles. Joanna might find Frances ridiculous, but it was not an opinion she wished for anyone else to share.
Whatever the case, it was time to leave. She looked to Frances, who had piled her plate with enough desserts to feed the gentlemen’s team.
Joanna pulled in her lips to stop a smile. “Do you intend to transfer the entirety of the refreshment table to your plate, or shall we go find Mama and Papa?”
Frances shot her a look, but behind the annoyance, it was characteristically good-humored. “I meant it when I said that today is bound to be a dead bore. I have never been able to understand cricket. These refreshments—and the view of the men playing, of course—shall be my only comfort. If Father attempts to make us stay after the match, I shall throw a fit.”
She picked up another cherry tart and turned to leave the tent, only to stop again, putting a hand out to prevent Joanna from going, as well. “On second thought, let us wait here a little longer. Mama and Papa are speaking with Lord Ryecombe, and I cannot abide that man.” She set the plate down on the table and picked up a turnover, biting into it and letting out a close-eyed groan of satisfaction.
Joanna sighed, but as she had no liking for Lord Ryecombe either, she relented and set her plate down next to Frances’s, taking a lemon tart for herself.
“I cannot understand why Father insists on keeping company with such a man,” Frances said with a mouth full of dessert and a curious eye inspecting the turnover. “He is the most disagreeable person imaginable.”
Joanna flashed her sister a warning look. It was unlikely, given how he was dressed, that the man nearby was personally acquainted with Lord Ryecombe—and even less likely that he liked the earl—but Frances needed to learn how to better guard her tongue. It was precisely why their father had allowed her to come along to Bath. He wanted her to learn how to comport herself, and Joanna was to set that example.
Joanna walked to where the cups of lemonade sat. “And yet, it is only thanks to him you are eating—or rather devouring—that pastry.”
“Yes, well, it is his cook I shall thank, not him. I hope the gentlemen lose just to spite him.” She looked at Joanna, as though a thought had occurred to her. “Or does he himself mean to play? Perhaps he will trip.” She looked pleased at the image this conjured up.
