A Daring Passion. Rosemary Rogers

raw nerves.

      “No wonder the innkeeper was so desperate for my blunt.” He glanced out the frosted window. “How far are we from London?”

      “We are still some thirty miles, with many of the roads impassable.”

      “Devil take it. If we are to have a decent roof over our heads before the night is out then we shall have to dare the main road.” Philippe grimaced. He had lived too long in warm climates not to feel the bite of the winter air. “No matter, there will be few travelers about at this time of eve.”

      “Not with the cook smelling snow in the air.”

      Philippe narrowed his gaze. “Tell Swann to take the turnpike before I leave you here to grub among the natives.”

      Lifting the hatch in the top of the carriage, Carlos passed the command on to the groom before resuming his seat with a smile that revealed a flash of perfect white teeth.

      “I wouldn’t complain at lingering an hour or two. There is a very eager barmaid who was casting her eye in my direction. She would no doubt warm a man on such a cold night.”

      The carriage swayed from the stable yard and began to pick up its pace as it hit the turnpike. Philippe gave a shake of his head as he resigned himself to a chilly, disagreeable night.

      “Good God, do you never think of anything else?” he demanded.

      Carlos gave a low chuckle. “That is your trouble, you know, Gautier.”

      “What? That I do not tup every chit who tosses herself at my feet?”

      “That you don’t tup any of the chits who toss themselves at your feet. It’s no wonder you are so grim and cross. A man needs the comfort of soft arms to keep him in high spirits.”

      Philippe smiled at the familiar chiding. Unlike Carlos he felt no need to possess a different woman in his bed every night. Oh, he was no saint. And certainly he was no eunuch. He had bedded the most beautiful, the most talented and the most exclusive women throughout Europe.

      But his affairs were always discreet and conducted with the same cool precision he approached the rest of his life.

      The mere thought of a hasty tumble with some tavern wench was enough to make him shudder in distaste.

      “Do you have a point, Carlos?”

      Sprawling with indolent ease, Carlos gave a small shrug. “Only that life is meant to be enjoyed.”

      “I would enjoy life a great deal more if my brother was not languishing in Newgate prison.”

      The dark, forceful features hardened at the mention of Philippe’s younger brother. Not surprising. Carlos held Jean-Pierre in barely concealed contempt, considering him a frivolous dandy who could boast no accomplishments beyond dallying away Philippe’s fortune.

      Unfortunately Carlos was not entirely wrong. Jean-Pierre was only one year younger than Philippe’s one and thirty, but he had been absurdly pampered by their father. As a result, Jean-Pierre had grown into a man of weak character and dissolute habits who cared for nothing beyond his own pleasure.

      “Jean-Pierre is always courting some sort of trouble or other, and you are always charging to his rescue,” Carlos said dryly. “It is what you do, after all.”

      “His troubles to this date have involved moneylenders, illegitimate brats and cuckolded husbands, not treason,” Philippe felt compelled to point out. “This snare may be one that not even I can untangle.”

      Carlos remained indifferent. “You will find the means. After all, he is for once not guilty.”

      “Of course he is not guilty, but how to prove him innocent?” Philippe clenched his hand as he thought of his brother stuck in a rat-infested cell surrounded by cutthroats and lunatics. For all his sins not even Jean-Pierre deserved such a brutal fate. “By God, the authorities must be worthless lobcocks to believe for a moment Jean-Pierre could concoct such a scheme. The fool cares for nothing beyond the cut of his coat, bedding his latest paramour and paying outrageous sums of money on what anyone with even a modest eye for art would consider worthless tripe. Certainly he has not the wits to dabble in politics.”

      “No one has ever claimed that the king is the most brilliant of gentlemen.”

      “True enough.” Lost in his dark thoughts, it took Philippe a moment to realize that the carriage had inexplicably slowed and was coming to a halt. “What the devil is the matter now?” Yanking open the window, Philippe glanced upward to ensure his groom had not come to some injury, before his narrowed gaze moved to discover the vague outline of a horse and rider standing in the center of the road before them. “Damn.”

      Pulling in his head, Philippe reached into his pocket to touch the dueling pistol he always carried.

      Easily sensing Philippe’s sudden tension, Carlos straightened, a dangerous fire burning in his dark eyes. “Trouble?”

      “It seems we are about to be introduced to the local bandit.”

      Far from worried by the news, Carlos slowly smiled. “Entertainment. Good.”

      Philippe chuckled at his bloodthirsty friend. “Hold, Carlos. I do not wish him dead. At least not yet.”

      “Why ever not?”

      “If anyone is to have noticed the coming and goings on this road it will be the resident highwayman. I wish to question this scoundrel before you put a bullet through his heart.”

      With a sigh Carlos reached down to flip open the trap door that Philippe had installed in the floor of the carriage, a clever addition that had saved their lives on more than one occasion.

      Philippe waited until Carlos had slipped from the carriage, knowing that his cunning friend was plotting to circle around the highwayman and take him from behind. It would be Philippe’s task to keep the scoundrel distracted until Carlos was in position.

      Keeping the pistol in his pocket, with his finger on the trigger, Philippe waited until the carriage stopped, then stepped out onto the road and walked toward the head of the horses.

      “Stand and deliver.” The highwayman was gruffly commanding as he waved a small pistol toward the offended groom.

      Swann gave a snort of disgust. The groom possessed a rabid dislike for thieves and cutthroats and was always happy to shed the blood of any who crossed his path.

      “Get out of my way, you pathetic worm, or I’ll rip out your heart and…”

      “That will be enough, Swann,” Philippe drawled as he stepped toward the middle of the road.

      “Bloody hell, I am well able to handle a half-grown rapscallion without your assistance.”

      “I haven’t the least doubt in the world, but it does not seem entirely fair that you should have all the fun.” Philippe kept his gaze upon the highwayman, who had shifted the pistol in his direction. Seated upon a dappled gray, the bandit sported a brilliant crimson hat and flowing cape, and he had possessed the sense to wrap a muffler around his lower face. Still, Philippe sensed that beneath the gaudy costume he was a small, nervous sort of man. A cold smile touched his lips. “There is nothing like a bit of target practice to relieve the tedium of a journey.”

      “Aye, but now you have ruined the gloss on your boots and I shall be the unfortunate soul who will have to spend endless hours polishing them,” Swann groused.

      “We all have our crosses to bear.”

      “Some of our crosses are greater than others,” the groom muttered.

      “That is enough,” the highwayman snapped, waving the gun in a dangerous fashion. “Put your hands in the air before I lodge a bullet in your heart.”

      “Good God.” Philippe gave a sudden laugh at the high-pitched voice. “I believe it is no more than a babe, Swann.”

      “Young enough