1
England, 1813
Lady Elsbeth Caldwell tightened her grip on the pistol, her gloved hands steady despite the chill that seeped through her wool coat. She sat atop her restless mare, hidden among the shadows of the dense trees lining the winding country road. Her breath misted in the cold night air as she waited, her heart pounding in anticipation. Tonight, she would uncover the truth, or so she fervently hoped.
Her stepfather, Mr. Alfred Stockton, was a merchant—a wealthy merchant, but a merchant, nonetheless. On the surface, he was polished, polite, even charming, but Elsbeth’s instincts screamed otherwise. Her mother, the once Countess of Bedford, dismissed her suspicions as nonsense, blinded by the stability he had brought into their lives after her father’s death left them with very little. Now, they were forced to live at her stepfather’s country estate in Polperro. It may be grand, but it felt like a gilded cage to her. The life she had known growing up was over.
But Elsbeth could not shake the feeling that something wasamiss. Her stepfather’s locked desk drawers and secretive behavior confirmed it. If only her mother would listen.
The faint rattle of carriage wheels reached her ears, and she adjusted her black mask, the fabric itchy against her skin. The image of her stepfather’s polished smile flashed in her mind, spurring her resolve. She could not falter now. If she could obtain the key he kept in his jacket pocket, she could unlock his secrets.
A coach came into view, lanterns glowing faintly in the foggy darkness. Elsbeth clicked her tongue, urging her horse forward. She rode into the middle of the road and leveled her pistol at the driver, who pulled the reins with a startled shout.
“Highwayman!” the driver bellowed, his voice carrying through the still night.
Elsbeth summoned the deepest voice she could muster. “Stand and deliver!”
A moment later, the coach door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out. The glow of the lanterns revealed his sharp features. He had a square jaw, dark hair neatly brushed forward, and long sideburns. His posture was confident, his expression mildly curious rather than alarmed.
He was not her stepfather.
Drat.
Elsbeth’s heart sank. She had stopped the wrong coach. This was a waste of time. She lowered the pistol slightly, irritated with herself. Why had she not taken more care to ensure it had been her stepfather’s coach?
“You may go,” she muttered.
The man raised a brow, stepping forward. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you may go.” She tried to maintain her commanding tone, though the encounter was already spiraling into absurdity.
“Are you not here to rob me?” he asked, incredulous.
Elsbeth shook her head. “Not today.”
The man took a step closer to her. “Why did you stop and inconvenience us then if you have no intention of robbing us?”
He did make a valid point. She had never tried to rob someone before. It might look suspicious if she did not try to take something from him. “Fine. Give me your pocket watch.”
The man hesitated before removing a gleaming gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. “This has been in my family for generations.”
Feeling sympathy for the man’s plight, Elsbeth said, “Then keep it and give me something else. Something worthless. A trinket, perhaps.”
The man studied her for a long moment before smirking. “You are not a very convincing highwayman.”
“I am,” Elsbeth declared.
The man did not look convinced. “For starters, you are a woman.”
“Women can be highwaymen,” she argued.
“It is rare,” he said. “Almost as rare as a young woman wearing trousers and sitting astride on a horse.”
Elsbeth felt her frustration starting to grow. “I do not have time to argue with you on the merits of highwaywomen. I am growing tired of this conversation. If you are not nice, I will demand your pocket watch as payment for you to continue on this road.”
“That is fine,” the man said with a slight shrug. “It is a trinket that I picked up when I was at the market. It is worth nothing.”
“You lied to me?” she asked, trying to ignore the irony of her question.
