Page 12 of Everything a Lady is Not
“Well, then allow me to instruct you. The rhyme proceeds thus.”
He stood straight with one hand behind his waist and the other gripping his lapel. When he spoke, he did so in the manner of a stage actor. “Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it. Not a penny was there in it, only ribbon round it.”
He studied her unchanging face before continuing. “There, you see? Lucy Locket. A wonderful alias suitable to your current circumstances, for you have most definitely lost your pocket.”
Reality hammered Lucy again. Fear cascaded upon her and she began to sob anew. The strange man surprised her by gripping her shoulders lightly.
“There, there, Miss Lucy.” His voice was filled with compassion. “I meant no harm. Sometimes my black humor runs away with my mouth, and I have the devil of a time retrieving it. And I’ll have you know that we never harm anyone. Your father is quite safe, I assure you.”
The unexpected hope helped stifle her sobs. “He is?”
“You have my word.” Then the stranger slapped his forehead. “But where are my manners?”
He removed his hat and bowed formally with a flourish of his right hand. “Sir Steadman, at your service.”
He glanced up at her while still in full bow, seeking recognition. She glared at him mutely. He grimaced.
“Sir Steadman? The Beau Monde Highwayman? The Knight of the Road? Have you not heard the name?”
Lucy shook her head with a tear-moistened frown. He stood and replaced his hat. “Just as well. Most of the stories about me are sorely lacking in veracity. I am nothing near seven feet tall, am I?”
She began to shake her head, but the sound of approaching voices drew Steadman’s attention to the forest behind him. He abruptly pivoted to Lucy with features deadly serious and leaned low.
“If you wish to live, then let me hold your locket for you.”
Her grip tightened on the necklace even as her instincts whispered of the truth behind the man’s warning. He held an open hand to her urgently. On impulse, she breathed an apology to her father, slipped the chain over her head, and held it to the man. He took the locket, slipped it into his jacket, and spun to meet four rough and grimy men emerging from the woods.
“You found her,” said a man whose lined face resembled an overripe pumpkin both in shape and texture. “The bloke’s daughter?”
Lucy clenched Steadman’s coattail from behind. He glanced at her and chuckled with resignation. “Sadly, no. This is Miss Lucy Locket, a mere humble servant of the marquess.”
The newcomer stared blankly before, what must have seemed to the man, a brilliant idea slowly captured his beaten face. “Then we ransom her!”
Steadman shook his head. “Wixom. Did I not explain just now that the poor girl is merely a servant?”
The man cocked his head before nodding slowly with piggish eyes. “Yes.”
“Then to whom would we ransom her?”
Wixom considered the question for the space of several seconds. “No one, I guess.”
“Exactly right. Your impeccable logic triumphs once again, Wixom. Well done.”
The man grinned at the backhanded compliment. Steadman clapped a hand on Wixom’s shoulder while still smiling.
“Now, then. It grieves me to also bear horrendously bad tidings regarding our little troupe, my friends.”
The others crowded nearer, intent on Steadman’s ominous pronouncement. The dapper man gathered their attention with a moment of stretched silence.
“Our attempt at simple larceny has gone horribly awry. We have dunked the daughter of the heir to a dukedom in the Thames and endangered her life. And so, we find ourselves in a tenuous situation.”
The men mumbled agreement, while not quite knowing what the situation was. Steadman silenced them with a diffident hand.
“The Crown will surely take offense at this incident and rightly blame us for the unintended outcome. Our sole salvation, then, is to sunder our company and vacate these environs with the greatest of expeditiousness.”
The highwaymen continued to stare at Steadman with slack jaws. He rolled his eyes. “If we remain here together, we will swing from the gallows by nightfall. If you wish to remain safe, then flee immediately.”
Alarm dawned on the collective faces. One by one, the men splintered from the group and left hurriedly through the woods until only Wixom remained. Anxiety reorganized his pumpkin face into a different configuration of lumps.
