Chapter 2
Normanton House
One week later
Robin set down his freshly drained teacup and had it immediately whisked away by an attentive maid clearing away the afternoon tea dishes.
If he closed his eyes for a moment, he could imagine himself back onboard ship where the senior officers issued commands and they would be carried out with well-timed efficiency.
It had to be this way, the lives of hundreds of men were at stake, not to mention the success of their assignment to protect England and defeat Napoleon.
And yet he wasn’t at sea, he was in his brother’s stately home overlooking Normanton, and the one issuing orders was the home’s beautiful and gracious mistress.
And the battle plans being made were for the Somervilles’ annual autumn house party.
After so long at sea, Robin had forgotten what an important event it was and, as a youth, he had not realized how much work went into such an affair.
The servants at Normanton House had never been slack in their duties, thanks to the diligence of the butler and housekeeper, but now their efforts were redoubled.
The scent of beeswax and hearth smoke hung lightly in the air as the household prepared for cooler evenings. The days might still be warm, but the nights had already turned brisk.
Robin left the dining room, lest he be picked up and tidied away along with the dishes, and made his way to the lady’s study.
Penelope was seated at her writing desk and Peter sat on a leather couch nearby, reading the newspaper that had come direct from London on the final post of the day.
“There,” Penelope announced, setting aside an envelope freshly sealed with wax. “The last of the invitations.”
Robin hid a smile as he watched Peter lower the paper to take in the high stack of invitations.
“How many are we inviting this year?”
Penelope shrugged daintily, a curl of dark brown hair bouncing with the movement.
“Only a dozen, the same as last year.”
Peter picked up the list at Penelope’s elbow and started reading aloud:
Sir Westcott Twisden, Lord Rupert Swan, Lady Florence Swan, Lady Josephine Cranfield, Viscount Weatherby…
Robin knew many of these people. Some were old family friends, others he only had a passing acquaintance with.
“…Felicity Belvoir…”
Robin pricked up his ears.
Well, someone was going to be very interested in that news.
He smiled to himself. Peter continued with the roll call of names, then another one caught his attention.
“… Victor Grant… do I know him?” Peter asked.
“Oh, we met him in London some months ago,” she said with a dismissive wave of a hand. “He has quite a tendre for Lady Felicity Belvoir.”
Now seeing Robin in the doorway, Penelope looked at him and smiled. “Thank goodness you’re here this year; it would have been that much harder to get the numbers right.”
Robin offered a small bow.
“Always a pleasure to be of service—after all it’s the least I can do since you’re giving me room and board.”
Peter left his place and clapped a hand on Robin’s shoulder.
“I know you can have a home of your own wherever you wish, but I’m glad you’ve chosen to stay with us.”
The kindness of his brother’s words struck a chord deep within him. He loved his family, and the time he had spent with them so far had caused him to think of a life beyond the relentless, unyielding discipline of the navy.
A home, a wife, family of his own…
The thought warmed him from within.
“My brother, there is no place I would rather be.”
“And yet…” Peter knew him well. A desire for a home and hearth couldn’t vanquish his restlessness.
Robin let the statement hang.
“And yet, I feel the need to be of assistance to my dear sister here,” he said before nodding to Penelope. “If I leave now, I can be assured to have your invitations on the next mail coach to London.”
He watched his sister-in-law spare a glance to her husband before turning back to him.
“There’s no need to put yourself out, I can send someone from the house.”
Robin shook his head and picked up the invitations and bowed.
“I am your servant, madam.”
Penelope smiled at him with all the indulgence a woman could bestow on a beloved younger brother.
Robin opted for the mile-and-a-half walk into the village, cutting through the edge of the woods where the bracken had begun to brown and the leaves hinted at turning.
So far, his family remained utterly oblivious to his occasional nocturnal activities as Captain Moonlight—as well they should—for the cost to their reputation would be immeasurable should he be killed.
And should he be captured… the penalty would be the same—death, this time at the end of a hangman’s noose.
That brought him back to Penelope’s guest list.
Victor Grant.
Robin gritted his teeth.
Now there was a name that he hoped never to hear again.
They had butted heads in the past while in service. Although it had been years since Robin had seen the man, it still didn’t make him any more kindly disposed to the cur.
Setting aside his own dislike, Robin knew of one other person who would like this news even less.
* * *
Rachel stepped into the kitchen, slipped on an apron, sat on a stool by the window, and placed a large bowl of freshly harvested peas on her lap. Mrs. Rolf, the vicarage housekeeper, currently elbow-deep in flour, looked up at her.
“How are the Swenton family?” she asked.
“They’re getting along,” she said. “The eldest boy has been able to take on his father’s carpentry work, although it will mean taking the youngest out of Mr. Justin’s school to do his brother’s chores.”
Mrs. Rolf shook her head and clucked with sympathy.
“Such a shame Swenton broke his arm. School has been good for those children.” she said. “I suppose we can thank God that the father didn’t suffer worse than a broken arm, the way he fell off that roof.”
Rachel started shelling peas, listening to Mrs. Rolf chatter away about other news in the parish.
Like Mr. Burgess’ trousers hanging from the church flagpole in time for Sunday service last week…
“And no one can work out how Captain Moonlight actually did it,” said the housekeeper. “The door to the church tower was locked, and the key never leaves your father’s office unless he is carrying it.”
Rachel held her breath waiting for a question. Did she know anything about it?
All in all, she would prefer not to lie, but neither could she possibly confess that she had taken it, because that would raise even more questions and that would lead to Robin Somerville.
“It’s to remain a mystery, it would appear,” she offered.
Fortunately, that was enough of a response for Mrs. Rolf to consider the subject closed and continue down another path, that being the arrival of Lady Penelope’s house party guests.
Robin Somerville was Captain Moonlight.
Rachel released a breath. It was beginning to seem more like a statement than a question.
Really? Could it be?
If only she could remember all the times and places the highwayman had struck. Could Robin account for his whereabouts?
In truth, she didn’t know. And it wasn’t as though she could make inquiries of her own without impugning his character—or looking foolish if her suspicions were unfounded.
But what if she wasn’t?
What she did know was that Robin chose to sit next to her at church on Sunday and sing from her hymn book rather than his own.
And, at some point, she had no idea when, he managed to slip the key into her reticule, a fact she only discovered when she opened it to pull out coins for the offering box.
Rachel continued her task, listened to Mrs. Rolf’s chatter while watching the view from the window, past the little kitchen garden and the little picket fence to the churchyard beyond.
A familiar figure came into view and her heart tumbled a few beats—it was as though she had conjured him up by thinking of him.
Robin.
“Ah, there’s Captain Somerville,” Mrs. Rolf announced, quite unnecessarily.
Rachel set her aside her bowl of shelled peas and glanced down at the apron filled with hulls. She stood, holding up the corners of her apron with one hand and announced her intention to feed those scraps to the chickens.
Robin waited for her there. On seeing her, he removed his hat. Curly sandy locks framed his face.
Rachel shook out her apron and the chickens hurried to peck at their treat.
“Have you time for a walk, Miss Pendleton?”
She paused a moment and regarded him intently.
“Have you come to ask me to purloin another key for you? If so, I shall have to decline. These things have a habit to of ending up in the wrong hands.”
The corner of Robin’s mouth lifted in a cockeyed smile. “The wrong hands, you say? Heavens, that will never do. What is this good borough coming to if a man cannot come to church without seeing his unmentionables flapping in the breeze.”
Rachel found her tongue planted in her cheek to prevent a smile. “Indeed.”
She searched his face, looking for the truth, and found herself taking in the shape of his jaw, the line of his lips, and then his soft blue eyes.
The look he offered her in return was no less intense.
Would he take her into his confidence?
Rachel held her breath a moment.
His eyes never left hers, and she felt the slight brush of his fingers run down her arm to her hand, caressing each finger before threading his fingers through hers.
Part of her mind clamored danger. She should not entertain thoughts about his good looks or risk her heart to someone whose social standing was far above her own. Yet she did not object as they walked hand in hand around the church grounds.
A neatly tended cemetery with weathered headstones attested to the age of the village—named for the very Normans that stepped on the shore not so far from here.
Her father personally oversaw the gardens.
Drifts of pretty little flowers in white, pink, and purple spread amongst soft greens of the grass and the tall yew trees that bounded the graveyard.
Lengthening shadows were a testament to the lateness of the day.
That still, small voice that had tried to warn her was soon quieted by the conversation which flowed effortlessly between them. She spoke of her visits to families in the parish and Robin shared Penelope’s plans for the autumn house party.
“In truth, I was glad to get out from underfoot,” he concluded.
Rachel squeezed his hand softly. Her heart went out to him. It mustn’t be easy for a man of action to return to a life of genteel civility.
“You miss your time at sea, don’t you?”
She received a shrug in reply.
“Would you go back into the navy?”
There was silence, and Rachel wondered whether it would be yet another question that would remain unanswered. They stopped at a tree at the corner of the churchyard. Some yards away was a two-story cottage, modest but well kept. But here they were not overlooked by it.
“No, I think not,” Robin answered at length. “That part of my life is over.”
“Then what is next? A man needs something productive to occupy his time; to have purpose. Or…” Rachel dropped her voice to a whisper and took a half step closer. “Have you already found it?”
There could be no mistaking the real question she asked; they knew each other too well for that. And she would know whether or not he told her the truth.
He let go of her hand and reached down to a patch of grass at their feet.
Robin plucked a four-leafed clover. A symbol of luck. He considered it for a moment then offered it to her, as a suitor might do with a bouquet of flowers.
“Perhaps,” he replied mildly. “Who’s to say?”
An answer, but not an answer.
Rachel accepted the offering, twirling the greenery around with her fingers.
“Would you stay here?” she asked.
Oh no, that sounded intensely personal.
“I mean, in the district.”
And it was only because she was watching him so carefully that she saw his eyes soften, as though he’d read her thoughts.
At that moment, the door of the two-story cottage in the field burst open and out tumbled four rambunctious boys, having apparently reached the limit of their ability to sit still to learn.
Their enthusiasm made Rachel smile.
“School is out,” she said.
Robin offered her a heart-stopping grin.
“And I’m here to see the teacher.”
“And I will bid you a good evening.”
As Rachel turned towards home, Robin snagged her hand and squeezed it briefly.
“Thank you,” he said.
That could mean anything. But most of all Rachel suspected that it was for keeping her silence about the escape with the key.
If only she had the courage to ask directly, but as it was, Captain Robin Somerville was already striding across the lawn to where Lieutenant Justin Weatherall, their local schoolmaster, lived.