The Viscount & The Highwaywoman: Ladies in Breeches, #1

By Hannah Fantham

When Lord Thomas Harrow, the wealthy, rakish, Viscount Fawcett, travels to the village of Cheltham for a hunting trip, he does not expect to be robbed by a highwayman on the way there. He makes it his business to catch the rogue, only to find himself repeatedly distracted by the charms of Miss Cecilia Carter, a lady who he can never marry. Tom wishes to make Miss Carter his mistress, but his heart will not allow him to ruin her, nor will the lady herself accept anything less than an honourable proposal. Will he realise in time that the woman he loves has a shocking secret?

 

Miss Cecelia Carter does not expect to marry—at one-and-twenty, she is already a wallflower and a spinster. As large and tall as a man, she has sacrificed her reputation and chances of marriage to keep her family and become a highwayman. But when she meets the handsome Lord Fawcett, an attraction burns between them and she cannot help falling in love with the very man who wants to bring her to justice. If only she could get rid of her secret and the danger that comes with it... 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hannah Fantham
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201230425

Hannah Fantham

Hannah Fantham lives in Aotearoa New Zealand with her dog. She has been writing fiction for many years. 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Lord Thomas Harrow , Viscount Fawcett, was fast asleep in his friend’s coach, as was his friend, the Honourable John Denbigh. Fawcett was a jumble of arms and legs, nearly falling off his seat. He was in a state of disarray, dressed in shirt-sleeves, lacking a coat and stock. Nonetheless, he would have been a noble figure, had he been sitting up, for his he arms and legs were well formed and showed to advantage under a silk shirt and the best velvet breeches. The lace that was used in his shirt could have clothed an entire baby. His torso was displayed in a waistcoat embroidered heavily with gold thread, one that matched exactly his large-cuffed coat. The taller, larger, figure of the Honourable John was dressed much the same. It was clear they were both gentlemen and gentlemen of good fortunes.

Suddenly, the coach ground to a halt, and Tom let out an oath as an empty wine bottle knocked against his leg. His head was still sore from the last night’s drinking, and he was completely at a loss as to why they had even decided to take a trip to the country in the first place, though he dimly remembered they were headed for Denbigh’s estate, and that, somewhere in the area, was stationed his old friend, Captain Gray.

Why the devil have we stopped, Denbigh? Tom was more than annoyed to be woken up in his present state of post-inebriation.

Damned if I know, sir, replied Denbigh, knocking the top of the carriage with his stick to signal that they wished to move on.

But the carriage did not move on.

Damme! cried Denbigh (Tom was too tired to cry out again), Whatever’s the matter, Hart? He stuck his head out the window, where it was met with the butt of a horse-pistol.

Stand and deliver, sir! cried a high-pitched voice. Tom, the voice jarring his head, noticed a well-dressed man mounted on a great black horse beside them, his face covered by a masquerade mask so that all that could be seen were a pair of blue-green eyes.

By the devil—, Tom cried, A highwayman! Denbigh was frozen, his eyes on the pistol, but Tom immediately felt the energy flow back into his veins, as it always did whenever danger was present. Where the devil’s my sword? he cried, then realised his man must have packed it in his luggage and swore again.

Ahem, coughed the highwayman in the manner of a schoolmaster, and, for a moment, Tom believed the man was about to tell him off for cursing. The man continued, I will not wait forever, sirs. Your money or your life!

Wordlessly, Denbigh removed his purse and handed it to the highwayman.

This is shame itself! said Tom, doing the same. His face was red, as he threw his purse across to the highwayman. To be caught out like this, he’d be the talk of the town! What would his friends, especially those in the army, say? He ought to have been riding like a man, not stuck in a carriage like a woman or a drink-sodden fop. Which, of course, was exactly what he and Denbigh were at that moment.

Your rings, gentlemen, continued the highwayman. Tom watched incredulously as Denbigh removed his rings without so much as a grumble. He himself was only wearing one ring, his grandfather’s signet.

No, he said, looking the man in his blue-green eyes.

This is your last warning, said the man.

This ring belonged to my grandfather, said Tom, as he removed the ring with exaggerated slowness.

Tom was shocked as the highwayman made a dismissive gesture with his pistol. That will do, he said. Perhaps, he thought, he is a gentleman. These people are often rumoured to be gentlemen, though most of them are not. Good day gentlemen, said the highwayman, doffing his hat. I am gone. And with that, he did indeed turn his horse and disappear off into the woods.

The second he had recovered from the sheer absurdity of this occurrence, Tom cried, We should after him, Denbigh! He was getting up, though the carriage was moving again, and moving fast.

Denbigh pulled him back down into his seat. He’ll be gone by now, Tom, he said. We’re nearly in the village. Besides, we do not have a pistol between us. One, of course, did not bring one’s duelling pistols on a shooting trip to the country.

Hart will have—, began Tom.

We don’t have horses—, continued Denbigh, who did not relish the idea of going after a highwayman on carriage horses while still recovering from a night’s drinking. Tom swore, his horses were being bought down on the morrow by his groom.

Fine, but I must see the magistrate immediately, said Tom.

Old Sir Arthur? Denbigh groaned. Tom, you cannot be serious, he is the biggest bore in the county.

Tom looked in askance at his friend. Denbigh was just a London fop, as he appeared. Nonetheless, he continued, I insist we see him.

Denbigh sighed and stuck his head out the window to give an order to Hart. A quarter of an hour later, they arrived at an ivy-covered grey house, in the style of the last generation, though it was more austere than flashy. Denbigh sighed again, more deeply than before, but he got out of the carriage. He then handed Tom out, as if he were a woman.

The reason for this soon became clear. Tom was leaning heavily on his stick, which, it turned out, was not just for show. If one looked very closely at Tom’s left stocking, there could be seen a long, ridged, scar. It was the remains of a sabre cut, which had thus far treated Tom very badly indeed. This was the reason he had taken no part in the recent rebellion, other than assuring his mother and sisters that, no, they were not all going to be murdered in their beds by a horde of marauding Scots. Tom believed himself