Unmasking Of A Lady

A woman is revealed…

By day Miss Harriet Groves is a highly respectable lady, and a darling of society with her quick wit and blonde beauty. But by night Harriet dons a disguise, riding out into the countryside as the feared – and often revered! – Green Highwayman.

A life of crime was never the plan, but saving her family from ruin keeps Harriet riding into danger under the cover of darkness. A danger made all the more acute by the arrival of Major Edward Roberts, the man commissioned to unmask Harriet’s legendary highwayman and bring him to justice!

Harriet’s far too clever to fall into any trap the major sets to capture her alter ego. Understanding it’s best to keep your enemies close, she sets out to thoroughly distract the major from his duty using all of her womanly charms.

Only allowing Edward closer has unexpected consequences for Harriet. How could she have guessed that time spent sparring and flirting with Major Roberts could inspire an excitement in her equal to the adrenaline surge she experiences on her night-time adventures? It seems the dashing major is a danger to her life, and her heart…

Unmasking of a Lady

Sophie Dash

www.CarinaUK.com

Sophie Dash is usually found chained to a laptop in her David Bowie pyjamas, with a spaniel dribbling on her feet, a pen in her hair and biscuit crumbs across her keyboard. She has a cardboard cut-out of Spock in her basement, knows all the words to Disney’s The Little Mermaid and has seen Pride and Prejudice more times than you. Follow her on Twitter @TheSophieDash

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

A pistol snapped in the night, a glimmer in the darkness. A horse was covered in a sheen of sweat as it ploughed onwards, hooves hammering on the ground with such a force as could summon thunder. The cool air crept up the rider’s sleeves and under the collar of her ill-fitting jacket, nipping at any exposed skin, as Harriet Groves fled.

She had not meant tonight to go as it had. The mayor’s carriage should have been an easy target, but there had been a man waiting for her, waiting for the highwayman who haunted the Wessex roads.

It begun as it always did – protests, shock, fear and overdressed aristocracy forced to part with their jewels and finery. It was her maidservant, Mary, who sounded the alarm, before a stranger’s weapon was fired. Harriet felt the shot pass between inches of her concealed face, burying itself into a tree trunk at her side with a heavy thud. She turned to the man who had fired it, movements fast, catlike. No one had ever tracked her down before.

From the coach’s swaying lantern she saw his strong, tall frame, the light casting shadows across his features – obscuring them from sight. There was no doubt that he had been waiting for them, had anticipated them. She could feel his eyes on her, boring through her skin, her heart skittering beneath her breast as though a sparrow were trapped behind it, shedding feathers in her lungs.

Harriet brought up her own pistol, halting him in his tracks, stopping him from reloading. Ever since she had first begun this terrible business, she had dreaded this moment. The night she would have to kill a man. Somewhere nearby an owl shrieked, a fox cried out, the branches above raked one another in the night. It was all dulled to Harriet as the blood rushed in her ears, though her hand remained steady and her resolve was hard.

“If you’re going to fire, damn you, fire,” the stranger growled, steeling himself for it, for death.

Harriet never uttered a word in response, though she wanted to – an apology, perhaps – but speech would give her away, for a woman’s voice would undo all her hard work.

She fired, purposely aiming far above his head, before dashing towards woodland cover. She ran as fast as her feet would carry her, ignoring the brambles that clawed at her ankles and the low branches that swiped at her head. Another distant shot snarled somewhere behind her, giving chase, driving her onwards. She climbed onto her waiting horse with a practised motion, before following her maidservant down a different track. She rode deep into the shadows as though the Devil himself were on her trail. For all she knew, he was.

The green leather mask across Harriet’s face cut into her cheeks, her identity further obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, giving her the guise of a man. All who encountered her and her pistol, on the dark Cotswolds roads and traders’ paths, thought of her as such.

They rode hard and long until dawn tinged the horizon a light navy, as though the sky had run out of ink at the edges. The pair slowed, deeming themselves safe and near home, hearts beating ferociously, skin prickling with perspiration.

“How dare he? Who was he?”

“I don’t know, miss,” said Mary, as rattled as she was.

“We need to be more careful; our targets have been too obvious.” She wrenched off her mask, catching her blonde hair with it. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

A narrow manor house loomed in the distance, a dark smudge nestled beneath a low hill. The night-scented stock in the garden’s borders pervaded her senses, along with the crisp, cool morning dew. It was calming. She had played in this garden as a child, had wrestled with her brother, made play at duels with sticks for swords, until she grew up and times became hard and all the pretence became reality.

The slow journey down to the vast property was quiet and disturbed only by chattering birds, awake and alive and happy to be so. The moon was still out – a slim stroke set into endless blue. Harriet breathed it all in – home, morning, life. It was almost enough to erase the dangers and troubles that had plagued both women that night – almost, though not quite.

Harriet’s maidservant, Mary, kept her mistress’s mare still as she climbed from it, pulling her own scarf from her nose and mouth.

“I didn’t even see the pistol ’til he had it, Miss Groves,” she began, equally shaken. “Didn’t hear him. I should’ve – ”

“No, Mary,” interrupted Harriet, holding her maidservant’s shoulders tightly. “We’ve not been cautious enough. We have snatched up the wrong attention and should count ourselves lucky the shot did not hit us or the horses.” Lucky that whoever that man was, whoever had been watching them, tracking them and waiting to strike, had only fired in warning. “Take them to the stables and get some sleep. I will not need you today.”

“But, miss, the trip into Bath, the ball – ”

“You need to rest; you look exhausted.” She smiled kindly, taking their loot from the other woman as it was handed to her, and stuffed into a small satchel. “I can dress myself for one morning.”

The maidservant nodded, eyeing the stolen goods, mouth bracketed by hard lines. “I don’t like having it in the house. It’s too dangerous.” She was a sensible individual, older than Harriet, with a boyish figure, dark features and unwavering loyalty. Her parents had worked for Harriet’s family, as had their parents before them.

“No one will find it in my rooms, for no one would dare search them. We are safe, I promise you that. If we try to sell all we have taken now, we will be caught. We’ll wait a few months, try it with our usual contacts, like always.”

Mary nodded, seeing the logic though she did not look convinced, and hesitating as she took up the horse’s reins.

“We are safe,” repeated Harriet, as she attempted to stifle a yawn. The sun was rising up beside the grounds, its soft glow erasing the sins that had passed that night, warming her bones. It would be a beautiful summer’s day. “Everyone thinks the Green Highwayman to be exactly that, a man. No one would ever suspect Harriet Groves of Atworth House.”

***

The following morning was a whirl of movement – boxes were bundled onto a borrowed carriage set up for the journey, the house was alive with activity and Harriet soldiered through it all with tired eyes and a mind haunted by the figure she had met on the road towards Bristol.

“When can I go to a ball, Harry?” The question and a heavy pout came from her younger sister, Ellen, who was none too pleased at being left behind. She bore a strong resemblance to her older sister, with fair hair, sharp features and eyes as green as the nearby meadows. A spaniel followed dutifully behind, chancing a lick at the young girl’s hand whenever it strayed within muzzle distance. “It’s not fair, I want to see the dresses, that’s all.” Ellen clung to Harriet’s wrist and was subsequently pulled along to their father’s study. The young girl was growing fast, though she was still barely fifteen. “Please, Harry?”

“When you are little older,” answered the girl’s father, affection in his voice. Stout, grey and far too lenient, Mr Jacob Groves was once again buried in a newspaper – or at least, he pretended to be, for Harriet noticed the letter he had quickly covered up on his lap, though she kept her thoughts to herself. Mr Groves pulled his gaze up for long enough to catch the attention of his eldest daughter, Harriet, his expression growing a little sterner. “Try to enjoy yourself or I’ll have your aunt extremely cross with me again.”

Harriet’s expression was exactly the same as her sister’s for the moment. “I swear, she wants to introduce me to every single eligible bachelor in the country.”

“And has not one been a match for you?”

Harriet only pursed her lips further, though she could not keep the smile from fighting its way onto her face.

“She only wants to see you happy, see you married off to a wealthy man, see you safe.”

“I am happy here, looking after you, as I always have been.” The prospect of wedding a man who would watch her every move, police her thoughts and force her into a wifely role was a repugnant prospect. She was not an obedient dog to be chained up and made to obey. “I know where I belong – it’s here.”

“I will not last for ever, Harriet.”

He, like the once grand house, was failing. The roof leaked, one wing was shut, windows had been boarded up and the few staff they had retained had not been paid in months. They stayed out of loyalty, and because, naively, they hoped the Groves family fortunes would turn.

“Enough of that, Father. Now be good while I’m away,” she instructed him, pressing a kiss to his forehead and forcing a bright smile. “Try to leave the study once in a while and don’t let Ellen go to the river on her own; she always stays there far too long entertaining that little dog and she’ll catch a chill.”

Ellen only dropped her sister’s hand when she was promised a present from Bath (and one for Millie the dog too), releasing Harriet and prompting her to begin her journey. She knew, stomach turned to stone, that her father was reading a letter from her brother, Giddeon, who was deep in his studies at Oxford, and even deeper in debt. It would be a request for yet more money the Atworth estate did not have. Upon her return, Harriet would discuss it with her father. They would sell more land, she would take a further look at their finances, mortgage the property. It would be solved. She would fix this, for there seemed no one else capable or willing to face their difficulties. Her father’s health was fragile, her brother gambled incessantly and she feared her sister’s reputation would be affected should further word of their debts spread. If all this meant that she was forced to don the green mask more often, she would, regardless of the consequences. It was worth it, for them.

***

The carriage journey to Bath lasted mere seconds, for the very moment Harriet found herself in the monotonous cradle of movement, her eyes fell shut. Even with all the worries, anxiety and the towering figure in the woods who had shot at her, sleep took her kindly away. And if she dreamed at all while the rolling hills passed and the hamlets faded into villages and then into towns, she knew she dreamed of him.

It was only the gentle coaxing of her aging footman, Barnes, with his thick West Country accent, which pulled her to wakefulness.

“We’ve arrived, Miss Groves.”

“Already?”

The day had worn on without her there to witness it. The late afternoon was already enshrouding Bath’s butterscotch-coloured stone and worn cobbles in a light, amber sheen. Before Harriet could come fully into consciousness, helped from the carriage and into a townhouse’s chequered hall, she was swept up into a firm embrace.

“I was worried sick! What kept you? Are you quite well? You’re lucky that rogue didn’t catch you.” The warm woman, Aunt Georgia, clad in pressed rustling silk and too many pearls, creaked as she released her niece. “Let me look at you!” Harriet was grasped firmly once more and surveyed by a round, open face. “Don’t you look pale? Have you been eating well? You’re far too skinny; we’ll never get you a husband. It’s that damnable country air. It’s not good for you – ”

Laughing at the barrage of questions, despite her weariness, Harriet’s mind was snared on one sentence the older woman had uttered. “Rogue?”

“The Green Highwayman! Now, I know they say he only attacks at night, but you can never be sure with these fiendish men. He’ll kill one day, mark my words. It’s high time something was done about him and if you ask me…” Conversing with Aunt Georgia was a lot like playing with a skipping rope as a child. One had to choose the exact moment to leap into the conversation, between the rope’s swooping arc, before the woman strayed off on another tangent.

“I am perfectly well,” interrupted Harriet, squeezing the woman’s hands. “Really, I am.”

“Of course you are, now that you’re here and you’re safe, you’re – you look awful, dear, truly dreadful,” insisted Aunt Georgia. “Let’s get you something to eat, shall we?”

“I am a little tired, that’s all.”

“Go change, come down for dinner and then to bed, I think? You must tell me what you’re wearing tomorrow night for the ball, though I took the liberty of purchasing a few simple things, mere trifles, honestly. Don’t be cross with me. I know you’re not in a position to get them yourself and I cannot have you looking like a vagabond in front of all our friends. Oh, I did write for your cousin, Alice, but her father sent back a terribly curt reply. I’m sure there’s a man involved. We’ll get one for you soon, as rich as a sultan, I swear it. And did you hear the Gilvrays bought out the entire stock of…”

She continued rambling, detailing the minute occurrences from every inch of their social circle, and all Harriet could do was nod.

“Yes, Aunt Georgia,” she said absently, offering a small wave as she shifted towards the staircase to her usual room, where her belongings would already have been unpacked. “Yes to all of it.”

***

The Bath Pump Rooms were unparalleled in their ability to host both the wealthiest and well-connected families in the country, along with all the best gossip. It was only a few hours into the ball and Harriet was aware that the Earl of Avesbury’s daughter had been rescued from an almost-elopement, the Duchess of Morsdown’s chandelier had come loose at a dinner party and narrowly missed crushing her husband, and there was to be an announcement tonight by Bath’s magistrate, Sir Charles Fielding, the gathering’s host.

The building was fairly new, constructed in the same sand-coloured stone as the rest of the city, and housed the warm springs that the Romans used to bathe in. Music filled the chambers, accompanied by laughter and incessant chatter. Men were in their finest garments, many in officers’ uniforms with polished buttons and swords at their hips. The women were draped in silks and jewels, hair coiled high atop their heads. Ostrich feathers were dyed to match dresses, shawls were draped precariously on shoulders and there was enough flesh revealed to barely remain tasteful.

“That’s her,” said one girl to her companions as Harriet passed by. “The one I was telling you about. She’ll be out on the streets in mere months.”

“There’s always work as a governess,” said a fellow to her right, though Harriet felt their piercing glares. “And she’s from a noble family.”

“Would you employ a creature like that, after knowing what her brother’s done? They’ve bad blood and poor form. They’ll drag down anyone who gets near to them, mark my words. The only reason she’s here is that aunt of hers and I bet they’ll bleed her dry…”

Harriet’s pale blue dress whispered along the tiled floor, as though the cruel words still followed. Her walk sped up, for she could hear no more. It was nothing new, though it still stung. Wine and humiliation had put colour in her cheeks and she found her own alcove, where stone pillars led off to other rooms and offered privacy. More than that, they gave her the opportunity to find refuge in her own thoughts – and escape curious eyes.

“You have not danced at all this evening,” said a deep voice, pulling her roughly from her reverie.

Alert, she turned to find the speaker, yet there was no man, only shadows. She spoke to them, lips pursed. “That’s because no one has asked me.”

And none would, with all the rumours that found her.

Before her was a stone pillar, fluted with shallow grooves she ran her fingers over it, and barely wide enough to hide someone behind it. It was cold to the touch as she circled it, hearing another set of footsteps matching her own, turning the other way. She changed direction, trying to catch him out. He did too.

“Then you have been watching me, sir?”

“I noticed you. There’s a difference.”

“Hardly.”

There was something strikingly familiar about his voice, though she could not place it. However, Harriet was known to many, had dined with numerous families in Bath and a few in London. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, she had met this stranger.

“Do you usually sneak up on unassuming women at parties, sir?”

“Only when ordered to.”

She turned quickly, expecting a flash coat-tails and not the imposing, unreadable man who met her. Harriet let her hand drop. He had a tall frame with a lean strength, broad shoulders and stature all the more imposing for the army officer’s uniform he wore. Grey eyes, like the ocean during a violent tempest, studied her. Ruffled, sandy-brown hair fell across a high forehead and the sudden urge to run her fingers through it took her by surprise.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, apologetic, though still imposing.

Harriet’s eyebrows rose, head inclined to the right. “What makes you think I am frightened, sir? Trust me, it will take far more than that.”

“Then I shall have to try harder.”

Harriet could not have managed to be demure if she tried, though a blush did find her cheeks – more to do with the wine than the gentleman before her. It was not the first time a man had unsuccessfully tried to woo her and it would not be the last. The poor soul had to be new to Bath’s society, for he would not have approached her otherwise.

Worse still, she almost liked him.

“Sir, I must ask – ”

“Forgive me, Miss Groves.” He bowed, a little on the stiff side. “I am Major Edward Roberts. Your aunt, a friend of my mother’s, was concerned for your welfare and sent me to enquire about your well-being.”

“Oh.” Harriet curtseyed slowly in return, finding disappointment swell within her. Yet again her aunt pulled the strings, playing matchmaker. A shame, she thought, he had almost seemed interesting. Now, he was merely another fool to be brushed aside. “You can tell her I am quite well, thank you,” replied Harriet, a little coldly. “It was nice to meet you, Major Roberts, now if you don’t mind – ”

“Humour me,” he said. “If we are both seen to converse for a short while longer, we’ll be free from any further commitments this night.”

She studied him, looking for a trick or catch in his words and only finding truth; he was as uneager to enter into mindless matches as she was. “Fine.”

“You have a good view from here.”

“I do,” she agreed. “It’s a nice distraction.”

The latest fashions, the handsome couples, the overheard snippets of conversation offering glimpses into other lives. She had already committed to memory all the beautiful gowns she knew her sister would like and who wore them.

“I have not seen you here before, Major Roberts,” she added, for politeness’ sake, vowing to have a few stern words with her aunt later. “Have king and country been keeping you from us?”

If only they’d kept you longer…

“Amongst other things.”

It was Harriet’s turn to talk and she groped around her skull for a subject. A minute or two more and they could part ways again. “It must be strange, having experienced war and battle and soldiering, to be here amongst all this?”

“I find it oddly normal,” the officer said. “It’s as though the rest happened to someone else, as though I read about it in a book.”

“Do you miss it – the soldiering?”

A wild, feral look claimed his features – a glimpse of the man who strode, sword in hand, fearless, into the worst that Hell and all its monsters could conjure. “I am good at it.”

His response only caught her off guard for a second and she recovered well. “I do not doubt that for a moment, Major Roberts.” There was a challenge in her next words. “Dancing or fighting, what are you best at?”

“If you would care to dance, I could let you be the judge.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“It is.”

“But without seeing you fight, sir, I would not be able to comment on the matter.” She smiled, receiving a barking laugh in return. “Although, I suppose one dance would keep our watchers happy, more so than a duel. Then they’d free us, surely, from any further commitments this evening?”

A stone’s throw away, across the ballroom, was Aunt Georgia and a willowy woman Harriet assumed to be Major Roberts’s mother.

“And we could go our separate ways,” he agreed, holding out a hand. “A worthy plan.”

She studied him for a short while longer, weighing up her options – and she would have gone along with their ruse, had not a thin man with a bureaucratic air interrupted them.

“Pardon the intrusion,” said the sallow pen-pusher, adjusting his ill-fitting wig and paying no mind to Harriet. “Sir Fielding wishes to make the announcement and requests your presence at once, Major Roberts.”

“Of course.” The soldier nodded and turned back to Harriet. “You’re free.”

“For now,” she said. “Though I doubt it will be for long, if I know my aunt.”

“Then I shall endeavour to liberate you later, perhaps?”

“I shall wait with bated breath,” she replied drily, though he took the reply in the good humour it was intended.

Major Roberts grinned, a flash of teeth and an amused, throaty noise, before he followed the other gentleman. If her eyes lingered too long on his fading form, there was no one else to know.

To her own annoyance, she liked him – and she’d made a promise to herself never to like anyone purposely selected by her relatives. It was true; Aunt Georgia was getting better at matching her up with possible suitors, though she did so hate to admit it. And she wasn’t inclined to entertain this one for long either, even if he was…different.

There was a gathering around the room’s main hall, curiosity palpable in the air. The music had ceased and Harriet found her way easily towards her aunt in the small crowd.

“I had hoped you would like our Major Roberts,” the older woman said softly, attempting to tease a response from Harriet.

“He is passable, I suppose.” Harriet caught sight of Aunt Georgia’s frown and found she enjoyed it far too much. Truthfully, the man was more than passable, which made a pleasant change from the usual boring fops that were thrust her way. That didn’t mean he’d last though.

“Don’t play games; this is serious,” chided Aunt Georgia. “You must marry soon and well, if you’re ever to be happy.”

“Your version of happiness and mine are grossly different.” Harriet knew better than to argue, pursing her lips, but her protest came out regardless. “Any friends I had when younger have been married off to clerks or clergymen, locked away in stuffy houses with boorish men to live out their days. It’s not for me.”

“We all must do what we can to survive, Harriet,” said the older woman, enforcing her words with a stern, yet concerned voice. “You have good prospects. Do not throw them away over fantasies borne from all the silly books you read as a child – ”

The room hushed. The magistrate’s voice rang out. Aunt Georgia was soon forced into silence and Harriet was saved for the time being. It was a familiar argument and yet, if Harriet could delay any union for as long as possible, she knew her position and home would be restored. The right investments, prompted by wise bankers, would see her through.

A little more time, that’s all she needed – along with a few more adventures out in the green mask – then she’d have enough capital to move forwards.

She only prayed that her luck was better than her brother’s.

“My apologies for interrupting what has been a splendid evening, especially as it concerns a rather grim subject,” began Sir Fielding. He was a stocky man in his later years, defined by a mane of wispy white hair and whiskers that gave him all the appearance of an aging lion – one that still had bite. “The Green Highwayman.”

Harriet’s heart stopped. Her eyes widened. A second was an eternity. For a small moment the magistrate’s glance met hers, but only as his gaze travelled across the room.

“On several occasions the West Country has been terrorised and tormented by that wretched soul and it’s time we put a stop to it…”

A whispered exchange took place behind Harriet, with one fellow commenting to his friend, “I quite like him. All of his targets have been extremely wealthy gamblers, crooks and arrogant fools who need a little terrorising.”

“He robbed your father,” the friend retorted.

“Exactly – we all know what an arse he is.”

Aunt Georgia shushed the talkative pair with a vicious glance and Harriet strained to listen to the magistrate, hoping that no one could hear how her pulse raced or see the guilt in her expression – or the shameful pride.

“We have drafted in the very best to capture the thief, to root him out and make him pay for his crimes. After serving in Spain, later capturing three known robbers on London’s outskirts, and with a personal commendation from the Duke of Wellington, there is no one more suited to the task of intercepting the villain…”

She gripped Aunt Georgia’s arm too tightly and her expression could not hold the calm she wished it would. Where was her mask now?

Gone, left behind, useless.

“And he will make short work of this scoundrel,” continued Fielding. “In fact, he already came face-to-face with the criminal only the other evening.”

What? Harriet reassured herself that all attention was fixed on the gentleman speaking, that no one would look towards her, or see her growing agitation and confusion. She was wrong. One man sought out her eyes and Harriet offered a fleeting smile towards her almost-dance partner, which took her unawares. Her anxiety fled momentarily, caught up in the warmth he exuded – a secret, soft look shared between them.

A balm before the stinging bite of the magistrate’s next words.

“We’ll have the Green Highwayman hanged at Newgate Prison by the season’s end,” announced Sir Fielding, to a short cheer. “And it will be Major Edward Roberts who will see it done.”

Applause broke out as the man himself, Edward, stepped forwards. Harriet’s smile was snatched from her face and her breath – turned to splinters – caught in her throat. The room turned dark at the edges and seemed to spin, a carousel of colours, merging into one dark, despairing mass.

Hanged at Newgate Prison.

“Are you quite all right, dear?” Aunt Georgia leant towards Harriet after she flagged slightly, pushing concerned words towards her as though they could be used to prop her up. The two talkative gentlemen were there again, to aid her lest she fall, each gripping one elbow. Not eager to draw any further attention, she quickly regained her footing, fanning herself with her hand.

“Yes, no, I – I need a little air, that’s all,” said Harriet quickly, the blood draining from her face. “I’ll be quite all right – no, you needn’t come.”

She pushed her way through the crowd, barely seeing any faces, tripping towards the main doors and into an empty foyer. The August evening air hit her in a wave, blissfully chilled against her cheeks, as her satin-clad feet found the street beyond. Light spilled out behind her, throwing her shape upon the cobblestones, and the music had started up again.