Chapter Four #3
The burglar dropped to the ground in a heap, felled like a mighty oak tree by a sturdy woodsman.
Or at least that was how Phoebe saw herself at that moment, even though she knew she resembled nothing more than a weedy child.
The sight of her triumph made her almost giddy with pride.
She’d done it. She’d caught the Mayfair Highwayman red-handed.
She stood over his body for a full minute, her heart hammering rather too hard against her ribs, waiting to see if he moved.
But he didn’t stir. A slight worry dawned.
Had she killed him? There’d been a definite crack as of breaking bone, but she didn’t think that had been his head.
Was one even allowed to kill burglars? The fear that she might be accused of murder arose.
Suddenly she didn’t feel anywhere near so proud of herself.
However, she was a practical girl, and having assured herself of his lack of response by poking him hard with her bare foot, and then the cricket bat, she repaired to her bedside table and hurriedly lit her candle.
This she carried back to her prisoner, her hand shaking a little.
Although, she reflected, if he were to regain consciousness he would find it easy to overcome her and escape, so he wasn’t technically a prisoner at all.
He was lying face down beside her dressing table, the contents of her jewelery box spilled over the floor by his side.
Better pick up her belongings in case he did wake up and make a run for it.
She didn’t want them within easy reach if he did that.
She stowed her jewelery box in her bed, under the covers beside the bolster.
Now to take a look at him.
He appeared to be wearing a suit of fine black worsted.
Not quite what she would have expected a burglar to be able to afford.
Although, if it was his habit to steal from the wealthiest in the ton, that might have financed his expensive tastes in clothing.
Definitely not a servant’s usual garb either.
Even though she was small, she was strong, and she managed to seize him by this coat and, with an almighty heave, roll him onto his back. Which was when she received the biggest shock of the evening, bigger, even, than being disturbed in the middle of the night.
His arm flopped to the side and his head lolled, and she saw he was wearing a black mask over the upper part of his face, much as she imagined a highwayman might have done in his heyday.
That could come off. She tugged it free and found she was staring at a face she knew all too well.
The face of the man who’d been disturbing her slumber.
Lord Gabriel Wycliff. A face sporting what was going to be a very noticeable bruise all down one side.
A bruise that was going to include a splendid black eye. If he wasn’t dead, that was.
Had she killed him with that blow? A tumult of emotions cascaded through her head and her heart.
She’d thought him her perfect man. And now she’d discovered he might well be the Mayfair Highwayman.
How did that equate with being perfect? It didn’t, really.
But was she going to call for Aunt Fanny, who would without doubt call either the constable or the Bow Street Runners.
What was she going to do? Especially if he was dead.
Seized by a mixture of guilt and fear, she leaned in close to listen for his breathing. For a heart-stopping moment she thought she couldn’t detect it, before relief washed over her. She hadn’t murdered him, just knocked him out. Quite hard. With a cricket bat.
But what on earth was he doing in her bedroom in the middle of the night looking in her jewelery box? There was no other conclusion to jump to. He had to be the famous burglar. But why? He was the son of a duke. Why on earth would he need to steal jewels?
She sat back on her heels and studied him, her mind racing. He was well and truly unconscious, even though not dead. She was only nineteen. Not long out of the school room. Surely a proper adult needed a hand in this. Had she better tell Aunt Fanny?
No. If she told Aunt Fanny before she knew properly what this was about, there’d be all sorts of uproar.
The servants would be dragged from their beds, and the question of why a young man was to be found in her bedroom in the middle of the night would be broached.
Aunt Fanny would probably call the constable.
That was what Papa would have done at Coakham if he’d caught a burglar.
Or, if he’d suspected the interloper of being in her bedroom for other reasons, he would probably have shot him first and asked questions later.
Which was pretty much what she’d done with the cricket bat.
But was he really a burglar? The burglar everyone was talking about? How to find out?
She looked down at him again. She was going to have to wake him up. Luckily, Atkins had left a jug of water with the glass on her bedside table for if she woke in the night thirsty. It would come in very handy.