Page 21 of The Damsel
His mother nudged him beneath the table at regular intervals, her way of letting him know he wasn’t paying enough attention to Miss Fletcher. His responses were mechanical, his head swiveling to the woman seated at his side each time his mother’s elbow made contact with his ribs.
“Miss Fletcher, do you not think these mashed turnips to be quite the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Stanley, Mother says Cook makes the best turnips in all of Suffolk!”
“Miss Fletcher, you played the pianoforte very well. You must have worked quite hard at it.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Stanley … but I enjoy the practice ever so much. Mother says I’m the best she’s ever heard.”
“Miss Fletcher, have you ever been to London?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to go. Mother says I may have a Season next year … if I find I do not like my prospects here at home.”
She’d given him a sidelong glance at that, batting her eyelashes and seeming to try to coerce him into something that would lead her into believing he held any interest in her prospects. As he wasn’t at all interested, he simply smiled and went back to his veal.
Now that dinner and dessert had ended, and Lady Fletcher had urged them all into the drawing room for after-dinner drinks and conversation, Robert found himself counting the seconds until they could make a graceful exit.
He’d reached one thousand, two hundred and ninety-four seconds, when a bit of the conversation finally piqued his interest.
“They’re calling him the Masked Menace. He’s become quite notorious for his escapades along the Great North Road!”
“Martin, really!” Lady Fletcher huffed, clicking her tongue at her son. “Such conversation isn’t appropriate in the company of ladies.”
“Oh, but tales of highwaymen are ever so romantic,” Lucy murmured, perking up at bit.
“There is nothing romantic about a criminal terrorizing London’s lord and ladies, pilfering their jewels and such,” his mother had declared with a disdainful sniff. “He sounds like an awful miscreant to me.”
Robert frowned, rising to join Martin at the sideboard for more port. “What are you all talking about? Who is the Masked Menace?”
“You haven’t heard?” Martin asked, filling Robert’s cut crystal glass first, then his own. “He’s a highwayman who’s made quite a name for himself over the past several months. They say he’s like a specter— coming and going while dressed all in black—complete with a mask and domino as if he’s attending a masquerade. Can you imagine?”
“I can, and it sounds like a perfectly horrid nightmare,” Lady Fletcher declared. “I heard he even used a knife to cut the solid gold buttons off a man’s waistcoat.”
Martin guffawed, spilling a bit of port onto the back of his hand. “Whoever heard of such a thing … solid gold buttons on a waistcoat?”
“The man was one of those fops, you know … high heels and ruffles, and patches and all that,” Lady Fletcher declared, turning up her nose as if said fop stood before them, sullying her drawing room with his flashy sense of style.
“Well, what’s to be done about it?” Robert asked, enjoying himself more now than he had throughout the entire evening. He could imagine London ballrooms and clubs were ablaze with the gossip.
“What can anyone do?” Martin said with a shrug. “The man come and goes so fast no one can get a good look at him. I suppose the Bow Street Runners might have a go at hunting him down, but I’d be willing to wager they’ll never catch him.”
“I hope they do,” the baroness said with an exaggerated shudder. “Until the reprobate is brought to justice, the roads will not be safe to travel. I am so glad you returned from London when you did, Robert. It is far safer here.”
“Indeed,” Lady Fletcher agreed. “Now let us talk of something else. The subject of highwaymen isn’t fit for my Lucy.”
The girl in question blushed and stared off into the fire, likely dreaming about some whimsical highwayman in a black cape come to whisk her away.
“Oh, have you heard we’re getting a new neighbor?” Martin said. “The Duke of Penrose of all people!”
Now, he had Robert’s full attention. The Duke of Penrose happened to be Cassandra’s uncle, who had inherited the dukedom after the death of her father. The former duke had sired four daughters onto the dowager duchess, and so the title and all accompanying wealth and lands had been left to his brother.
“A duke as a neighbor?” Lucy chirped, sitting up a bit straighter. “Oh, that is marvelous news! But, why on earth would he come here?”
“He’s just purchased Easton Park … you know, the abandoned
Fairchild estate.”
Easton Park, the estate neighboring Briarwell, had belonged to Daphne’s family until they’d been forced to abandon it due to strained finances. Of course, it had come to light during Bertram’s trial that the family had been beggared by thousands of pounds paid out to the young lord’s victims. They’d paid for the silence of the women he had assaulted, including Cassandra, making it easy for the rest of it to be wasted away—most of it squandered due to an uncle's terrible gambling habit.
