The Lord of the Highwaymen - Elizabeth Bramwell Page 0,4
took to swinging his rapier with a casual disregard that encouraged people to give them room.
“I’ve spied him,” shouted Conway over the sound of the orchestra. “There, over by the French windows. I think he’s being propositioned by Queen Elizabeth and Bloody Mary.”
Dook thought this inordinately funny, and under other circumstances, William would have laughed as well, but worry was eating a hole into his chest. Despite knowing how Louis was dressed, it had still taken the best part of half an hour to locate him. What chance, then, did he have of discovering which lady was his Amelia in disguise?
“Excuse us, your majesties, but this misbegotten cur is no gentleman of the road,” growled Killarney, exaggerating his swagger as he stepped in front of the two women.
“Arrr, he’s none other than the scoundrel James Maclaine, who turned on his own brother-in-arms, William Plunkett, in an attempt to escape the gallows,” added Conway.
Dook leaned over to whisper in William’s ear. “I keep telling Conway that highwaymen don’t speak like the rum-runners, but he insists on that accent. Be a good chap and see if you can dissuade him, will you?”
Louis, it seemed, was not happy with the attempted rescue by his friends. He drew himself up to his full height, which was further exaggerated by the heels on his black riding boots, and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Monsieur, you offend me,” he declared. “I am none other than Claude Duval, and resent being mistaken for some common English villain!”
The two queens giggled in delight, seemingly under the impression that this show was for their benefit.
The earl, however, forgot all about the rescue as he turned to his friend with an irritated expression.
“Damn it, man, you can’t be Duval, for I am!”
Louis Duponte, the Chevalier D’Arras, cast his friend a mocking look. “Non, you have not the flare to be one of my countrymen. If anyone must be le voleur de grands cheminsit, it’s me.”
“That’s a fair argument,” admitted Dook.
William and Killarney nodded in agreement, and Conway looked fit to explode.
“No, blast it all! First, I couldn’t be Plunkett, then I couldn’t be Flemming, and now I can’t be Duval? This is too much!”
“You didn’t want to be Flemming,” Killarney reminded him. “You wanted Dook to be Flemming, but he and I swapped, remember?”
“That’s not the point at all!” Conway raged.
“He is drunk, non?” asked Louis.
“When is he not?” sighed William.
His friends, except for Louis, snorted, while the Frenchman kept an expression of aloof superiority. The two queens, bored now the possibility of a daring duel had disintegrated into a boyish squabble, lost interest in them, and turned their attention toward an Indian Rajah.
“It’s all fine, Conway,” said Killarney in a soothing voice. “Why don’t you play Plunkett after all?”
“I can’t be Plunkett without Maclaine!”
Dook glanced at William and winked.
“Think, man! Maclaine was caught, so you can be Plunkett after that scoundrel tried to turn King’s evidence on you.”
“That is rather genius,” the earl admitted, looking mollified. “I think I can work with that.”
Louis grinned. “You can still be Duval if you wish, mon ami, for I only used his name when no one seemed to know Nicolas Pelletier.”
There was a brief moment of silence among them. Louis sighed and then tugged down the lace ruff at his neck to reveal the thin red ribbon he had tied there.
“Pelletier was a voleur de grands chemins,” he explained. “They took off his head by guillotine not a year before they executed my king. He is one of ours.”
“Trust you to bring the mood down,” said Killarney, punching Louis gently on the arm.
They all knew that their friend disliked overt shows of sympathy for his ordeal the year before, but his smile showed that he understood the intent behind the marquess’s words.
“Ah, forgive me, mon amis,” he said with a slight incline of his head. “We are here to ensure William’s future happiness on a last throw of the dice, non?”
William winced. “I wish you would not put it like that.”
Dook laughed and slapped him hard on the back. “Too much pressure, eh? Listen, my friends, our purpose tonight is not to convince the fair Widow Fellowes to marry our boy, but merely to get him to speak to her without tripping over his tongue. We do not want a repeat of Vauxhall Gardens!”
“Or Astley’s,” sighed Killarney. “That was painful for us all.”
William winced again. “Can we not talk about that?”
The duke gave him a sympathetic smile before turning