The Lady and the Highwayman Read online

  © 2019 Sarah M. Eden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, ­Shadow ­Mountain®, at ­[email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of ­Shadow ­Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, or are represented fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Proper Romance is a registered trademark.

  Visit us at ShadowMountain.com

  * * *

  Library of Congress ­Cataloging-­in-­Publication ­Data

  Names: Eden, Sarah M., author.

  Title: The lady and the highwayman / Sarah M. Eden.

  Other titles: Proper romance.

  Description: Salt Lake City, Utah : Shadow Mountain, [2019] | Series: Proper

  romance

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019016912 | ISBN 9781629726052 (paperbound) | eISBN 978-1-62973-792-8

  Subjects: LCSH: Women authors—Fiction. | Women teachers—Fiction. | Man-­woman relationships—Fiction. | Penny dreadfuls—Fiction. | Nineteenth century, setting. | London (England), setting. | LCGFT: Novels. | Romance fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3605.D45365 L33 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019016912

  Printed in the United States of ­America

  Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc., Melrose Park, IL

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover art: alex74/Shutterstock.com, Nimaxs/Shutterstock.com

  Book design: © Shadow Mountain

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Heather G. Ward

  Other Proper Romances

  by Sarah M. Eden

  Longing for Home

  Longing for Home, vol. 2: Hope Springs

  The Sheriffs of Savage Wells

  Ashes on the Moor

  Healing Hearts

  To Lisa,

  who trusted that I could take the seedling of a story idea and grow something other than weeds

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment I

  Chapter 2

  The Vampire's Tower: Chapter I

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment II

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Vampire's Tower: Chapter II

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  The Vampire's Tower: Chapter III

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment III

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The Vampire's Tower: Chapter IV

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  The Vampire's Tower: Chapter V

  Chapter 19

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment IV

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment V

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  The Vampire's Tower: Chapter VI

  Chapter 25

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment VI

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  The Lady and the Highwayman: Installment VII

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  London, 1865

  Rumor had it, Fletcher Walker wasn’t born but had simply appeared one day, swaggering down the streets

  of London. He hadn’t any better explanation for his origins, so he embraced it. He’d been a very confident four-year-old pickpocket. At ten years old, he’d strutted into a ragged school, no matter that he was the kind of no-­account urchin who didn’t belong in any school. He learned to read, learned to write, and learned to saunter his way through doors that ought to have been permanently closed to him.

  No one seeing him now, casually tossing and catching a penny in his finely gloved hand as he strode down Bedford Street near Covent Garden, would ever guess he’d started in the ditches. Nor would anyone feel the need to ask him where he was headed or what his business was. Everyone assumed he belonged and knew what he was about.

  Cries of “Flowers for sale!” and “Eel pies!” and “Ginger beer! Penny a bottle!” filled the air as they did all day long on the streets of Town. He’d money enough now to be the hero to many of those desperate for a coin here and there. But he needed to go unremarked. Generosity always drew notice.

  He reached the corner of King Street, still tossing his penny, still pretending not to notice every person and cart and white-knuckled grasp on baskets of goods. More than anything, he made a point of not noticing the gentleman approaching from Garrick Street, tossing a penny in just the way he was. The man made no acknowledgment of him, ­either.

  A group of grubby street boys leaned against a building, all clamoring for a glimpse at a well-worn softcover publication. The size made it easy to identify: a “penny dreadful.” The cheap serials were popular among the laborers and mongers and poor children of London. For a penny, they could enjoy a weekly installment of any number of sensationalized stories featuring criminals and monsters or grand adventures and daring heroes. They were everywhere to be seen around London.

  A costermonger began his bit of puffery. “Got peas, guv. Greenest, snappiest peas in all the—”

  Fletcher’s quick glance, amusement and annoyance mingled in just the right amount, changed the man’s tone to one of deference.

  “Peas, sir.”

  If the bloke was still there when Fletcher walked past again, he’d buy something off him. He didn’t dare risk drawing attention now. Secrecy was of the utmost importance.

  The costermonger tugged at his cap as Fletcher continued on, not slowing his step, not pausing in his coin tossing. It pained him turning down these struggling people, but his clandestine work did the lot of them vastly more good than a trickle of pennies ever could.

  The other penny tosser turned onto King Street. His hair, the color of sunset against the industrial skies of London, made him an apple in a basket of spinach: there was no missing him. Theirs was the same destination, but Brogan Donnelly always entered through the back. He drew too much notice. Fletcher knew how to draw none at all.

  Fletcher paused on the walk, a bit in the shadows. He slipped his penny inside his watch pocket, then pretended to shake dust off the brim of his silk hat. He didn’t meet the eye of anyone passing by, but he also didn’t make a show of avoiding doing so.

  Once Brogan had disappeared from view, Fletcher popped his hat on his head and casually continued his unhurried ambling. His steps took him up to and through an unassuming blue door. The entryway beyond looked bang-up to any number of plain, respectable spaces throughout London: an improvement over a poor piece but falling short of the splash of aristocratic homes.

  The butler sat on the cushioned bench near the door, his eyes closed and chin pressed against his chest, back bowed, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy, buzzing breath.

  Fletcher pulled his penny from its place in his waistcoat pocket as he stepped to the dark wood table acr
oss from the slumbering man. Fifteen other pennies sat on the tabletop. He set the coin on its edge and, with an expert twist of his fingers, set it spinning.

  Nothing about the butler’s position or posture changed except for the movement of a single arm. He reached out and pressed the circular center of a carved flower in the molding. The click of a lock sliding open echoed from the right side of the entryway.

  Fletcher touched the brim of his hat and dipped his head in the butler’s direction. The man simply returned his arm to his side, neither speaking nor opening his eyes.

  While the entryway wouldn’t’ve grabbed anyone’s notice, the secret room beyond the mechanical door would’ve brought anyone up short. It wasn’t a parlor or dining room in most homes in Town, but rather a smaller version of the House of Commons.

  Fifteen men—as familiar as they were varied—stood about the room, chatting. Fletcher set his hat on a hat rack. He slipped off his jacket and gloves. Devested of those bits of discomfort, he undid the buttons of his waistcoat. He was no longer a player on a stage clinging to a role; the men in this room were frauds in their own rights. They’d not begrudge him being one as well.

  He sauntered down the wide aisle separating the two sets of facing benches, past the lectern, and to the ornate chair that was his at each of these meetings. A throne, really, but one that had been left behind by the house’s previous occupant. If history had taught the English anything, it was that a throne left empty would be claimed by someone. And poverty taught a man to do what he could to make sure that “someone” was himself.

  Fletcher plopped himself down on the throne. “Time to be outstandin’ but not upstanding, lads.” Eye rolls and chuckles met the declaration. The others moved to their usual spots.

  “You are late,” his friend Hollis Darby observed.

  Fletcher leaned against one arm of the chair. “Meeting don’t start ’til I get here, so I’d say it’s more a matter of you lot arrivin’ too early.”

  Hollis made a cheeky bow. “Yes, Your Majesty. I will strive to be less punctual in the future.”

  He and Fletcher got on well, no matter that they were as different as coal and water. Hollis’s people were aristocratic types, the kind with old bloodlines and older money. He’d taught Fletcher how to swagger like a gentry cove rather than an overgrown street urchin.

  Fletcher looked over the men, not all of whom were sitting yet. “Order, mates!” he called out. “Order.”

  They took their seats, a proper roughs-and-toughs version of Parliament.

  “With me, then, men.”

  In near unison they offered the oath that opened each meeting. “For the poor and infirm, the hopeless and voiceless, we do not relent. We do not forget. We are the Dread Penny Society.”

  Fletcher sat with either elbow on the chair arms, his fingers entwined. “Penny for your thoughts, gen’lmen.”

  Hollis Darby rose from his place on the middle of the long bench to Fletcher’s left. “I’ve secured invitations for Fletcher and myself to attend a political salon toward the end of the week, one that will be patronized by many with known interests in both education and the betterment of the poor. We can covertly ascertain who among them might be open to the idea of contributing to Mr. Hogg’s ragged school.”

  Nods of approval from the other men matched Fletcher’s.

  “Has anyone had any luck sniffing out the bally cod who’s undermining Hogg’s work?” Fletcher didn’t bother hiding his contempt. Mr. Hogg’s school was the only one open to the lowest dregs of London street children. Some blackguard was trying to shut him down.

  No one seemed to know. Leastwise, not yet. Fletcher had no doubt they would eventually. One benefit to writing the sensationalized penny dreadfuls: there were few villainous plots—outlandish or otherwise—that they couldn’t dream up and sort out.

  “We’ll see his school made right-tight,” Fletcher said. “This society won’t be best pleased with anything less.”

  The air filled with echoing declarations of “Hear! Hear!” and “Righto!” and a few other phrases exclaimed in languages other than English—they were a varied group.

  Fletcher repeated the call for business. “Penny for your thoughts, gen’lmen.”

  On the bench to Fletcher’s right, Stone rose to his feet. They knew him only by the one name and knew better than to press the matter. He kept mum on near everything but did not for a moment give the impression of timidity. Indeed, Fletcher suspected, should it prove necessary, Stone could thrash the lot of them in a bare-knuckle fight and wouldn’t hesitate to do so if it needed doing.

  “We’ve a new monarch growin’ mighty comfortable on the throne.” Stone’s accent had taken some getting used to when they’d first met. The man had lived his early life as a slave in America’s South. His escape was the stuff of legend amongst the Dread Penny Society, in large part because Stone refused to tell them how he’d managed it. When it came to Stone, no one asked for information he hadn’t already provided.

  “Our Victoria’s not stepped down or stuck her spoon in the wall,” Donnelly’s Irish lilt was more familiar to English ears. “And I’ll not be believing the ol’ girl would let someone else borrow her crown.”

  “I reckon your Queen’s safe in her claim.” Stone looked to Fletcher. “But someone’s fixin’ to toss you off your high seat.”

  Fletcher eyed the crowd. “Is one of you aching to dance this jig?” He tapped the arm of his chair.

  “Not that throne,” Stone said.

  Ah. Fletcher had been the top-selling writer of their brand of low-literature serials for more than two years, but someone had been inching ever closer to his position. He’d not heard there’d been an official changing of the guards.

  “Mr. King has surpassed me, has he?”

  Stone nodded. Expressions of understanding filled the other faces. They had all taken note of the rise of the mysterious Mr. King. His work was different than any of theirs. It had elements of nearly everything: adventure, nearly always involving criminals or otherworldly apparitions, sometimes both; a desperate love story; a mystery. Someone was forever being kidnapped, robbed, or forced on the lam. King’s first story had seen more than one poor soul shot and left for dead. He was, slowly but surely, claiming an ever-larger slice of the penny-dreadful pie.

  Stone retook his seat. That he’d said as much as he had spoke to the seriousness of the situation. They weren’t worried for Fletcher’s sake. He was far from wealthy, but neither was he an in-and-out pauper making his home on the steps of the poorhouse. Fletcher’s earnings helped fund the efforts of the Dread Penny Society: saving working children from abusive masters, feeding poor families, finding work for those searching, rescuing far too many women held against their will in places of ill repute, finding better situations for children in the most desperate of circumstances. His place at the top of the penny dreadfuls was what kept the society afloat. Without his monetary contribution, they couldn’t do half of what they did.

  “What do we do about it?” Fletcher asked. The group always made these decisions together.

  “We need to find this Mr. King and decide what game he’s playing.” Dr. Milligan spoke without rising. Once they had a topic to chew on, things weren’t so formal. “If he’s the sort to take up our cause, so much the better. If not . . .”

  He didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. If this Mr. King undermined their work, they’d have no choice but to find a means of knocking him out of the top-sellers position. Too many lives depended on what they did.

  “There will be writers at the salon Fletcher and I are attending,” Hollis said. “Perhaps we might find someone among them in possession of clues as to King’s identity.”

  Brogan shook his head. “Silver-fork writers, yah? High­brows? They’ll not be deigning to admit they’ve heard of the penny dreadfuls, let alone know those who write ’em.”

&n
bsp; Fletcher shook his head. He had rubbed elbows now and then with those who wrote for the more well-to-do. They’d no interest in the work he did, but they knew of it. “Someone’ll know something.”

  “Agreed,” Stone said.

  Fletcher nodded. He and Hollis would dig for information at the upcoming function. He’d have to put on his “­society” airs.

  More points of order were raised: a charity they’d helped, a young girl they’d rescued from exploitation, the possibility of admitting a new member. They hacked it out, made plans, and then Fletcher adjourned the official portion of the gathering.

  The group mingled once more, some remaining in the Dread Penny Chamber, others wandering out.

  Stone made his way to where Fletcher sat. “Do you really reckon King’s not worth more worry? He’ll be your undoing if you ain’t careful.”

  “I’ll worry when I’ve no other choice,” Fletcher said. “His stories are interesting, I’ll grant. But he’ll not steal all our readers for good.”

  Stone’s expression didn’t lighten. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded booklet, then held it out to him.

  Fletcher accepted it, curious. The purple cover was un­familiar, as was the title, The Lady and the Highwayman. The author’s name, however, was well-known to him. “This is King’s newest, i’n’it?”

  “It is.” Stone tucked his hands into his pockets: not a posture of defeat, but one of confidence. “Blast if there ain’t somethin’ in it, Fletch. I think it’ll catch fire. He’s grabbed on to something none of us has.”

  Fletcher met his eye. “You think he’s a threat to the society.”

  “He’s an unknown. When a feller’s work is dangerous like ours, he cain’t have question marks.”

  As Stone walked away, Fletcher rose and flipped to the first page of Mr. King’s latest offering. He walked slowly toward the door, meaning to read in the privacy of one of the upstairs chambers. Stone was not one for exaggeration. If he said King was encroaching, he most certainly was. And that spelled disaster for all of them.