To Catch a Flame

  To Catch A Flame

  Kimberly Cates

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Kimberly Cates, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © Kimberly Cates

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Preview To Chase the Storm

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Also by Kimberly Cates

  Prologue

  ENGLAND, 1768

  The night roiled with fury, gnarled tree branches tearing at the darkness like greedy fingers hungering for some unseen prey.

  The moon, a single ghoulish eye, leered down from the heavens, casting eerie shadows over the mounted figure racing along the perilous ribbon of road. Jagged stones and twisted roots snarled across the crude pathway beneath the magnificent animal's thundering hooves, threatening to plunge both horse and rider into the devil's outstretched palm.

  The devil...

  The rider shuddered, casting a glance over one broad shoulder as he attempted to see what lay behind him. It was as if he could feel Lucifer's own breath hot upon his nape, could feel the claws of death curling inexorably toward him—and, more terrifying still, toward the son he treasured more than his own life.

  For he had seen... witnessed—

  "No!" He drove his heels deep into the horse's ribs, and the beast surged forward as if it, too, sensed the evil all about them. "It’s madness... impossible..."

  But his mind would give him no peace. The darkness seemed to twist into images from his worst nightmare—the folds of an ebony cloak, a face lead-painted, white.

  The devil's own...

  The rider reined his mount to the west, where the woods thinned slightly. Slender fingers of light flickered in the distance, beckoning, welcoming.

  He urged his horse forward, dizzy with relief as he neared safe haven. But suddenly his mount whinnied in fright, rearing as an apparition was conjured from the very mists.

  Horrified, the rider’s gaze locked upon the figure that stood stark against the night, a cape whipping back in the wind like the wings of a fallen angel. Even in the meager light of the moon the apparition's eyes burned, twin pits of hate, turning the rider's blood to ice.

  Desperately he groped for his pistol while struggling to cling to his mount's back, but it was as if the horse itself was possessed. He felt something drive him back in the saddle, his legs tearing loose from the horse’s barrel, the reins ripping from his hands.

  Laughter echoed through the night as he hurtled through darkness. Terror lanced through him, not for his own life, but for his son's.

  His son—

  There would be no one... no hope to save him now. Except...

  Maybe but one...

  One man, one chance—

  He screamed the name as the gates of hell yawned beneath him, plunging him into death's embrace.

  "Griffin!"

  Three months later Lord Griffin Stone sailed back to England, the lazily arrogant mouth that had bewitched a hundred ladies now hard with grief, and his eyes, the blue-gray of a tempest-tossed sea dark with the pain of loss....

  Chapter 1

  The brace of pistols appeared ludicrous in Molly Maguire's small-boned hands, and she stared down at the weapons pillowed upon her lap, her huge eyes somber. "Beau, this is madness." Her warning echoed softly about the tiny inn room. "You cannot ride tonight."

  "Don't be a gudgeon, Moll!" Isabeau DeBurgh tossed her flame-red curls, her green eyes snapping with excitement as she retrieved the weapons, her most cherished possessions. "It is a perfect night for raiding."

  "A perfect night to get yourself hanged."

  "Molly, can't you see it?" Isabeau made her most ghastly demon face, her voice dropping into the low, eerie tones that she knew sent shivers up her friend's spine. "There is moon enough to cast sinister shadows." She fluttered her fingers, drawing nearer to Molly. "And the wind whispers like haunts through the branches... it makes those pompous, jewel-encrusted oafs who travel the highroads quiver down to their diamond shoe buckles even before they've left the safety of their fete or musicale."

  "Beau," Molly said, shrinking back against the crude wooden chair. "You know I loathe it when you make your voice that way!"

  But Beau ignored her plea, unable to resist such a susceptible audience. "And the ’ristocrats," she continued in a low purr, "they'll have filled their coachmen with ominous warnings and be clinging to their treasures like a mammy to its babe. I'll wait... wait in the darkness while they shiver with images of night dragons and ghosts in their heads, and then—whoosh!" Beau leaped toward Molly with an ear-splitting howl. "I'll spring from the shadows like a nightmare come real. " Molly's squeak, as she skittered from the chair, filled Beau with glee.

  With a jaunty grin Beau straightened. Skirting the narrow bed and slant-topped table, she strode toward the looking glass to arrange the froth of ruffles tumbling down her shirtfront. "And then, Molly, my girl," Beau observed, giving her black breeches a pat of infinite satisfaction, "those pot-bellied curs will hurl their pretties at me—and gladly, relieved that it is not the devil himself come to steal away their souls."

  "Pray God they don't hurl something else at you. Like a musket ball or a sword." There was an unaccustomed edge to Molly's gentle voice that stung Beau more than she would admit. "This is no game you are playing at, whether you believe it or not. Look how many highwaymen have been taken to Tyburn Fair. The gibbets line the roadside... everywhere."

  Molly shuddered, and Beau's own mind filled with images of the ironbound structures dangling tarred corpses like grisly fruit—a warning to any who would dare take to the High Toby.

  But she brushed the sobering thoughts away. Her eyes danced like twin imps as she grinned. "They would have to catch me first. And no mere mortal could ever clap the bold Devil's Flame in chains."

  "You cannot know that for certain," Molly cut in, wringing her hands. "It was bad enough before, when it was just Bow Street's runners you had to fear. But ever since—since that grand duke was found..." Molly nibbled her lower lip.

  "The only reason you've given half a thought to the Duke of Ravensmoor's demise is that it is splashed all over the Spectator that his scoundrel brother is returned to England. The infamous Lord Griffin Stone—duelist extraordinaire, heartless rogue. No doubt he is greedy to pick his brother's bones."

  "I don’t care a whit about Lord Griffin, nor about any of those silly scandals! I t
ell you, there's been something afoot for months now. Something wicked."

  "The only thing 'wicked' afoot that night was Ravensmoor's horsemanship. He deserved to snap his fool neck, bolting about on those roads in the middle of the night."

  "But you race about all the time!" Molly blustered. "Darkness has never stopped you! And you know as well as I that the duke didn't merely tumble from his saddle. The streets have been abuzz ever since—"

  "It takes precious little to set these streets astir. Ravensmoor fell from his horse, and—"

  "Then what about Lily Tymmes and Rebecca Mathers? I doubt either of them ever touched a saddle in their lives."

  Even Beau could not stem an inward shiver at this last. The corpses of the two low-born women had been discovered in the dense woodlands skirting the Blowsy Nell Inn. It was whispered that even their mothers could not have recognized their faces, slashed with symbols that could have been carved by Satan's own hand.

  Stiffening her shoulders, Beau forced a dismissive snort. "It was awful, what befell those women. But there is no proof the victims were Rebecca or Lil. And furthermore, the murders had nothing to do with Ravensmoor, and still less to do with me. I am no dainty wildflower to be crushed beneath some night stalker's heel. I am the bold Devil's Flame—highwayman, brigand—"

  "What you are, Isabeau DeBurgh, is a fool if you believe yourself immune! I know you think me a coward, and maybe I am, but this time it is different, Beau. I feel something is amiss—feel it to the marrow of my bones."

  "What? You fear some monster lurking in your imagination will swallow up the Devil's Flame? I think not." Beau's eyes glinted with amused arrogance. "Haven’t you read the pamphlets of late, Mistress Maguire? 'The Flame is a monster of a rogue, with blood-hued eyes and fists the size of anvils. His horse is as swift as death and thrice as daring'."

  Beau scooped up her jaunty cocked hat, adjusting its crimson plume. Her irreverent gaze flicked from the headgear to her own petite form mirrored in the looking glass. "It must be the hat."

  Despite her best efforts, the corners of Molly's mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. "If it were that simple, I'd take the thing and stuff it in the fire so you would make an end to this idiocy. I swear—"

  "No, you never swear," Beau replied, warming at the very real concern in her friend's voice. "You are entirely too sweet and good to keep company with a reprobate like me."

  Molly looked away from Beau and caught her lower lip with her teeth.

  Beau watched as Molly paced to where a black velvet cloak—prime pickings from a snipe-nosed baronet—was spread upon a narrow bed, the richness of the garment an odd contrast to the humble chamber. Molly smoothed a tiny wrinkle from the fabric.

  "Beau, I can't—can't help but blame myself for..." She faltered. "For driving you to ride. It is because of me you need risk again so soon."

  "Bah!" Beau denied gruffly, but she could not meet her friend's eyes. "Am I not the daughter of Six Coach Robb, one of the greatest brigands ever to ride? It is just another grand adventure, and I revel in 'em. I only wish you had"—the bantering tone faded from her voice—“wish you had told me things were awry again before..." Beau's voice trailed off. She hated the flush that sprang to Molly's cheeks as they both recalled the previous night. Beau had returned from a fortnight's amusement at Medlenham Fair only to find Molly painfully absent at Old Nell's bidding.

  "He—he was not so odious a man." Molly rubbed her fingers upon her petticoats as though to cleanse them of grime. "And it was over... quite soon."

  Beau's heart twisted. Shame darted into her friend's brown eyes, shame and a fear that seldom left them for long.

  "I think I shall become used to it after a time. Old Nell claims—"

  "Old Nell is a shriveled-up bag of nonsense, and you're a goose to listen to her. You'll not become used to any such thing with me around, and now Owen will be riding, too, and will be able to help you." The thought of Molly's fifteen-year-old younger brother soured Beau's mood, but she hid her misgivings.

  Owen Maguire was five feet of bumbling, awkward trouble, with a temper too quick by half and a pistol aim so poor it was whispered he couldn't hit the Tower of London if he had his nose smack on Traitor's Gate.

  And tonight the Devil's Flame, the highwayman rogue known throughout London for cunning and daring, would be joined by that green lad. Molly had called Beau's rides madness before—but Beau knew it was pure insanity to lug along a boy whose temper was tinder to a brushfire. And yet...

  Beau's lips compressed with uncustomary grimness. Last night when Molly had returned from her assignation with one of the brothel's patrons there had been stark fear in the girl's eyes. Timid Molly could scarcely speak to strangers without going white in the face, and to steal away with them to a room upstairs, endure their pawing and grunting was a horror beyond Beau's imaginings.

  The thought of that fate made Beau's skin crawl. She had wanted to rail at her friend, furious that the girl had not warned her that she needed more coin to pay her way at the so-called "inn". But one look at the suffering in Molly's face, and Beau had been unable to stay angry.

  She had merely drawn out her pistols and told Owen that tonight he would begin to learn the highwayman's trade.

  "You are taking him tonight?" Molly's nervous quaver broke into Beau's thoughts. Beau drew her soft leather boots over the tight black breeches she always wore.

  "I'm taking him tonight."

  "Beau, he... he's not the steadiest sort, Owen isn't. I fear—"

  "I know it's hard, but he must learn some skill with which to support the both of you, else you'll be trapped at the Blowsy Nell forever." A defensive note crept into Beau's voice. "I wish I could school him in a printer's trade, or perhaps a solicitor's, but I can't. I can only teach him what I know." And pray he becomes decent enough at it that if anything should befall me, you both will survive, she thought. "I know it is not the best solution," she said aloud, "but I'll take good care of him for you, Moll."

  Molly's dark-lashed eyes flashed up, a sad smile on her lips. "Of course you will. And as for... for what you are schooling him in... Beau, no one knows better than I how generous you've been with the two of us. We'd not have survived a month in this city without you. Do you remember when you found us? That awful old baker had me by the petticoats, and Owen—"

  "Owen looked like a starved rat." Beau shook her head, remembering the scrawny pair the two had made, crofter children whose parents had been killed by a runaway coach. London had been a labyrinth of terror and cruelty for the orphaned Maguires. They had been cowering before a flour-spattered baker who had discovered them pawing through the refuse heap behind his shop—Molly a wide-eyed eight-year-old, Owen five.

  The baker had threatened to see them clapped up in Newgate for thieving when Beau came upon them.

  All of ten she had been, nettlesome as a briar patch, all swagger and snap. Hands on hips, she had stomped up and let fly a string of curses so blue they made even the grizzled old man blush. Then, with a well-honed instinct for discovering the weakness beneath one's armor, she had warned the old man that if he persisted, she would bring the wrath of the most feared brigand in all of London down on his head—Jonathan Everard Ramsey, known throughout the city as Gentleman Jack. The baker had roared with laughter until he had peered into Beau's crystal-green eyes.

  "It is you, then," the man had said to Beau as he let Molly loose with a surprising gentleness. "The girl Jack tends. Daughter o' Six Coach Robb."

  "No one tends me," Beau had flashed back. "Jack only keeps me around because I’m so blessed entertaining."

  "Gentleman Jack keeps you around because you be the child of the greatest highwayman that ever lived. Take these two whining pups, if you've mind to, your ladyship." The baker had reached out, ruffling Beau's wild curls with a smile. "Your pap, he robbed me once, an' finer manners I never did see. Made it seem near a privilege that 'e chose us, 'e did. I’ll remember him always. Do 'im honor, girl. Do honor to the
memory of Six Coach Robb an' his most beautiful lady."

  Beau had puffed up with pride. She remembered so little of the father who'd taken her on wild rides perched upon his glorious night-black horse, the father whose scarlet satins and ringing laughter had delighted her, the father who had meant the world to the beautiful, gently bred woman who'd been Beau's mother.

  A twinge of grief stung Beau as she thought of her mother's porcelain-delicate face the last time she saw it. The liveliness and laughter that always bubbled in Lady Lianna had ebbed away, as though the hangman who had dealt her husband death had opened her veins as well. They had buried Lady Lianna at Robb’s side a fortnight after his friends had cut him down from the gibbet.

  Seven-year-old Beau had been frightened then, for the first time in her life, and furious with her parents for leaving her alone. Yet she had not been alone for long. He had ridden up, astride a blooded sorrel, his plumes a splash of color upon the drizzly-gray sky. The devilish-handsome face that made women swoon had been astonishingly solemn.

  He had swung down from his horse in a flurry of sapphire cloak then strode toward the cluster of mourners ringed about the new-dug grave. Straightaway, he had come to Isabeau, and had swept the cocked hat from his head, dropping to one knee before her.

  Your most obedient servant, my lady Isabeau, he had said softly. My name is Gentleman Jack Ramsey. I rode with your father. I will take care of you now.

  And he had—that young man with his flashing smile, and his ready wit. He had schooled Beau in reading, in ciphering, had even tutored her in the classics, which she loathed. He had struggled to teach her manners as well, in memory of her gently bred mother. Yet she had been too much Robb's child to play the budding lady for long—and the swagger, sparkling eyes, and bold ways that had winged her father into legend delighted Jack Ramsey, in spite of himself.