His grin spread to set his teeth flashing and his eyes dancing with merriment. His voice was unexpectedly gentle when he spoke. “Come, Thelma,” he said, “you have nothing to fear from me. You need not deny your identity or try to frighten me off with threats. I would not attack you even if what you say is true. I do not take that sort of advantage of the helplessness of females. And even if it were true, I could not bring myself to harm a lady of such great courage. I admire you greatly, I do assure you. All you will suffer at my hands is a possible night of confinement. I am sure your papa will not withstand my demands for longer than that, especially as I ask so little of him. Come and eat now. You must be hungry.”
“You may go to the devil, sir,” Kate said. “And my name, if you must use it, is Mannering. Mrs. Kate Mannering.”
She held up her left hand, palm inward, when he continued to smile, to reveal the gold wedding band that she still wore. For the first time he seemed less than confident. He looked searchingly into her face, the grin not quite as amused. He pushed his shoulders away from the door and crossed the room to stand in front of her.
“You make an almost convincing little liar,” he said looking so directly into her eyes that Kate could feel herself blush. His eyes beneath the mask were a very decided shade of blue. “And where is Mr. Mannering, my dear?”
“In a churchyard in Sussex,” she said. “He is dead.”
“I am almost inclined to believe you,” he said, talking more to himself than to her. “If you were Thelma it would be in your own interest to admit as much. You are in far greater danger here with me as a mere Mrs. Mannering. Are you telling the truth?”
“I am not in the habit of lying,” Kate said, all dignity. “I did so earlier only to protect my employer. She is a timid soul, I am afraid. She needs protection.”
“You did this out of the greatness of your soul and not because you were ordered to do so?” he asked, smiling. “I salute you, Mrs. Mannering. Katherine, did you say?”
“I said Kate,” she replied. “I have never been called by my full name. But it is ‘Mrs. Mannering’ to you, sir.”
He lifted one long bronzed finger and flicked it across her cheek. “You are well-named, Katherine,” he said. “William Shakespeare had one not unlike you, I believe. I regret that my name is not Petruchio. Not that I would wish to tame your spirit. But is it true, my dear? Are you really not my cousin Thelma? What a bungling job I have made of tonight. And I will never have another chance, I dare swear. Her father has been thoroughly alerted to the danger. And having told you my identity, I do not know what I am to do with you. If I set you free, you will blab the truth all over Dorset within a day.”
“I certainly shall,” Kate declared rashly. “And within that day, I believe you will be under lock and key until a rope can be prepared for your neck.”
“What a ghastly thought!” he exclaimed, shuddering in a violent manner that Kate viewed with suspicion. “I suppose I shall have to keep you here for the rest of your life. I do hope you are older than you look, Katherine. Your captivity might prove to be a long one.”
“Feeding me for the next fifty years will probably prove a deal more costly than ransoming me for a small sum now,” Kate said with a carelessness she was far from feeling. She was so determined not to say anything to this man that could be construed as groveling that she had really said some very unwise words. In reality she was thoroughly alarmed. The alternative to long captivity, if he felt he could not let her go, was appallingly obvious to her. How would he do it? she wondered. Stabbing? Strangulation? Suffocation? None of the possibilities offered her any degree of comfort.
“Well,” he said in a brisk voice as if he had come to some decision, “I may be falling for a clever lie, but I am inclined to believe your story. The sniveling behavior of that little gray lady is much more what I would expect of Clive Seyton’s daughter. And you, Katherine Mannering, I should be very angry with. You have thwarted plans that I have made with great care over the past week. Now I have to think of something different. And I fear that might prove difficult. My cousin will not be an easy man to outwit, I believe.”
“Why do you persist in calling the Earl of Barton your cousin?” Kate asked. “I think he would not be flattered by the connection to a highwayman.”
“Because he is my cousin,” the highwayman answered. “At least, he was my father’s cousin. His father and my grandfather were brothers, you see. Have you not heard of the skeleton in the closet of the Seyton family, Katherine? Have you not heard of the bastard?”
“The what?” Kate asked, faintly shocked.
“ ‘Bastard’ was the word I used,” he said. “Should I have been more delicate? ‘Illegitimate offspring,’ perhaps? ‘By-blow’? But I see you have not heard of such a creature. I flattered myself, perhaps, to believe that I would be openly talked about. My father was the only son of the earl who recently died. ‘Viscount Stoughton’ was his title—that now held by the angry gentleman who shared your coach tonight. He was not married to my mother. At least, that is the story that my grandfather always accepted. But I was brought up at the Abbey nonetheless. He was a stern and rather lonely, man, I believe. He treated me most of the time as if I were a legitimate grandson. And indeed, I believe that I am.”
“I have no interest in listening to such nonsense,” Kate said, turning to cling suddenly with one hand to the windowsill behind her. She felt faint from standing so long on the same spot.
Her captor reached out and took her firmly by the upper arms. “You must sit down,” he said. “This evening’s events have been a strain on your nerves. You must have been traveling all day. And have not eaten since luncheon time, at a guess. Come, Katherine. I will not allow this stubbornness any longer, though I clearly recognize your need to defy my wishes. You will sit down and drink a cup of tea. It will still be hot and probably strong too, having been in the pot for some time. No, don’t fight me. If you will not walk, I shall pick you up and carry you to the table.”
Kate walked in some haste and made no verbal protest when he picked up the teapot and poured the dark liquid into her cup. She reached for the sugar bowl.
“Are you going to admit to a burning curiosity to hear the rest of my story?” the highwayman asked, seating himself at an adjacent side of the table and picking up a slice of cheese. His voice sounded mocking, but whether he mocked himself or her, Kate could not tell.
Kate picked up her cup, sipped the tea, found it not too hot to drink and took a larger mouthful. The tea was rather stronger than she liked, but she found it calming nonetheless. “I am your captive sir,” she said. “If you wish to talk, I have little choice but to listen.”
“Your interest in my life is overwhelming,” he said with a mock bow. “But I shall tell you anyway, Katherine. I am almost five-and-twenty years old, and I have lived most of my life believing the story that I am a bastard and that my mother was a sorry creature, long dead. It is amazing how one learns to live with unpleasant realities. My illegitimacy never made me actively unhappy.”
“And what makes you think now that you are legitimate?” Kate asked. When he smiled she could have bitten out her tongue for showing so much interest. She was becoming annoyed by that grin. Beneath the mask he was probably as handsome as his physique was magnificent. And he was doubtless well aware of the fact, and of the effect his smile must have on females. She was spitefully glad he was a bastard and therefore unable to secure the interest of anyone of rank.
“My grandfather was ill for only a short time before his death,” the highwayman said. “Indeed he was not an old man. But when he was ill, I sat by his bedside for hours at a time. And he reminisced about my father, something he had rarely done through my life. Perhaps he had always thought that I would not wish to know a great deal about the man who had done me the great disservice of begetting me out of wedlock. One afternoon he told me about my father’s death. I had heard the story before, but not the events that followed it. Katherine, will you please eat? You have seen me do so. Surely I have convinced you that the dishes are not poisoned.”
“‘Mrs. Mannering’ to you,” Kate said as a token of her fading defiance. She really was ravenously hungry. She picked up a piece of wafer-thin bread and butter and took a dainty bite before setting it on the plate in front of her.
“I had always assumed,” he continued, “indeed, I do believe that I was actually told as a child, that my mother had died soon after my birth and after making arrangements to have me sent to my father. Yet my grandfather told me when he was dying that he had had a letter from my mother more than a month after my father’s death. She had written it to my father and claimed in it that he was her husband.”
Kate’s eyes were wide with interest despite herself. “And was he?” she asked.
“Apparently not,” the highwayman said. “A messenger was sent to France and came back with me and the news that my mother was not married to my father but that I was undoubtedly his son. This despite the fact that I looked nothing like him. My father was fair.”
