Highwayman: Ironside by Michael Arnold Page A

him?"
    "Yes."
    She laughed again in the darkness. "You are a strange creature, Major Lyle, that is for certain." Before he realised she had moved, her hand was on his cheek. It was warm and he angled his face, pressing against it. She was so close, though he could only discern her outline in this sepulchral recess of the garden. But he could smell her, and feel her breath.
    He inched away. Just a fraction, but enough to break the trance. She was perfect to his eyes, and that knowledge hurt him. Brought guilt crashing through his chest to invade his heart. He thought of Alice.
    Then she moved, closing the divide just as he had opened it, climbing to the tips of her toes, and her lips were on his, parting a fraction so that he could feel the lambent tip of her tongue. And then she was gone, stepping away from him as his rushing pulse hammered in his ears.
    "He is here," she said. "He does not condone such events, of course, but even dour men like Uncle Frederick concede such frivolity must be allowed on occasion. Hippisley is to be rewarded, for he served the revolution well, and his allegiance must continue to be nurtured. His charisma holds a deal of sway here in the Downs, so says my uncle."
    "Where is he?" Lyle managed to say, his mind still clouded by her actions. "Where is Sir Frederick?"
    She gave a sharp, bitter chuckle. "Uncle will not dance, or be seen to give it his blessing. But he is here. Put that mask back on, and follow me."
     
    The drawing room was on the far side of the house, looking out onto the front courtyard via a pair of large, rectangular windows that were crammed full of diamond-shaped panes of glass. Samson Lyle waited in the corridor outside, watched with disinterest by a bored looking footman, but he caught a glimpse of the room's interior as Felicity Mumford half-opened the door and bustled in. Lyle watched as she walked, skirts hissing like a chorus of serpents behind, and, just as she disappeared inside, he spotted two familiar faces. One was that of Sir Frederick Mason. He wore no hat, but the rest of his attire had not changed since the robbery. Felicity had said that he disapproved of such events, but Lyle could see that such a claim was a stark understatement, for the sober black coat and plain white shirt were conspicuous in their absence of colour. Mason sat at a large table scattered with papers and scrolls. He studied one intently, not looking up as his niece entered, a quill poised in his right hand. The other man was standing at his shoulder. He wore the attire of a soldier, even donning a breastplate for the occasion, though it was no masquerade costume. Kit Walmsley, Mason's bodyguard, was grim-faced and alert. He looked up immediately upon seeing the door open, one hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, and frowned when he saw that it was her. For a heartbeat his little eyes flickered past her shoulder to stare at the doorway. They met Lyle's gaze, held firm. Walmsley cocked his head to the side like a confused hound as he stared at Lyle, and then the door slammed shut.
    Lyle did not know whether to linger or make good his escape. If Walmsley had somehow recognised him, then trouble would be quick on his heels. But he could not afford to flee. He needed to know when the authorities planned to move James Wren, and the chief lawyer to the Major-General of Berkshire, Sussex and Hampshire was the only man who had that information. He had come too far to let the night's efforts go to waste.
    A bell tinkled gently from somewhere further down the passageway, and the glum footman trudged away, leaving Lyle alone. He edged closer to the door. The murmur of voices carried to him, muffled and too quiet to discern, but no shouts came forth, no hue and cry was being raised. He held his breath, stepped back. The door handle clicked, light streamed out to illuminate the dull corridor, and there stood Felicity Mumford. She stared hard at him, gave the tiniest shake of her head, and called a