The Bride Thief

Emerging from the bushes, Arthur set off across the lawn at a brisk trot. Determination stiffened his spine. Something had to be done to help poor Miz Sammie.

Arthur knew only one man who could help her… the mysterious man whose name hovered on everyone's lips from London to Cornwall. The man eagerly sought after by the magistrate for his daring exploits.

The notorious, legendary Bride Thief.

Through the window of his private study, Eric Landsdowne, Earl of Wesley, watched Arthur Timstone cross the terrace lawns on his way back to the stables.

The stableman's words rang in his ears. 'Tis a terrible situation, my lord. Poor Miz Sammie wants not a thing to do with that stuffy Major Wilshire, but her pa's insistin'. Bein' forced to marry this way, why, it'll just break Miz Sammie's heart, and a kinder heart I've yet to meet.

Eric had sat behind his desk listening to his faithful servant, neither one acknowledging by so much as a nicker of an eyelash why Arthur would bring this news to him, but both knowing exactly why. The secret they shared bound them together tighter than a vise, although they rarely discussed it during the day when the servants were awake, for fear of being inadvertently overheard.

Such a mistake could cost Eric his life.

But simply knowing that Arthur shared his secret, that he wasn't completely alone in the dangerous life he'd chosen, afforded Eric a strong measure of comfort. He loved Arthur like a father; indeed, the servant had spent more time with him during his formative years than his own father ever had.

Now, watching Arthur striding across the perfectly manicured lawns, the early-morning sun glinting on his graying hair, Eric noted the man's slight limp, and his heart pinched. Arthur was no longer a young man, and although he never complained, Eric knew his aging joints were often stiff and painful. He'd offered him a well- appointed bedchamber in the manor house, but the servant had refused. Tears had glistened in Arthur's pale blue eyes at the generous offer, but he chose to remain in his rooms above the stables, close to the horses he loved and cared for.

A smile tugged at Eric's lips, for he knew Arthur had also refused his offer so as not to risk sneaking into the main house in the middle of the night after returning from seeing his lady love. Even though there were no secrets between them, they rarely discussed their respective love lives. Arthur would be mortified if he suspected Eric knew of his late-night trysts, but Eric was happy for the man.

Perhaps that wasn't a limp at all, but rather a spring in his step, Eric mused to himself.

Shifting his gaze, he looked toward the woods in the distance, his thoughts returning to the matter at hand.

He shared only a casual acquaintance with the Briggehams, as he did with most of the families in the area. He spent most of his time in London, keeping in close contact with his solicitor and man of affairs, spending only several weeks during the summer here at Wesley Manor. During those few short weeks every year, he expertly dodged the matchmaking eyes of the village mamas, one of the most notable of whom was Mrs. Cordelia Briggeham. Of course Mrs. Briggeham would know, along with every other mother in Tunbridge Wells, his longstanding aversion to marriage, although they were not privy to all his reasons. Unfortunately, that aversion only served as a challenge to the intrepid daughter-ridden matchmakers.

He had to admit that the three youngest Briggeham daughters were rare beauties. One of them, he couldn't recall which, had recently married Baron Whitestead. He had only a vague recollection of Samantha. Frowning, he tried to remember what she looked like, but could only conjure up a shadowy image of chestnut hair and thick spectacles. He knew via the gossip mill that she was considered an eccentric bluestocking and sadly lacked feminine appeal, a fact rendered all the more glaring by the extreme beauty of her sisters.

In contrast, he had no trouble calling to mind Major Wilshire-a large, blustery, arrogant man with a ramrod stiff military bearing. Eric found him tolerable only in small doses. As far as Eric knew, the Major never smiled, and laughter was out of the question. He sported thick, graying side whiskers, a quizzing glass, and tended to bark out orders in a booming voice as if he still commanded a battlefield.

Still, the Major was intelligent and reportedly not unkind. Why didn't Miss Briggeham wish to marry him? She was well beyond the first blush of youth, and if she were as dowdy as he'd heard, she couldn't possibly attract many suitors. Arthur had reported that she'd claimed not to love the man. A snort escaped Eric's lips, and he shook his head.

He'd be hard-pressed to name even one marriage among his acquaintances that had been based on love. Certainly not his parents' marriage, and God knows not Margaret's…

Turning from the window, he strode across the Axminster rug to his desk. Reaching across the mahogany surface, he picked up the miniature of his sister. She'd had it painted for him just before he entered the Army. 'Keep it with you, Eric,' Margaret had said, her encouraging smile not masking the deep concern in her dark eyes. 'That way I'll be with you. Keeping you safe.'

A lump tightened his throat. Her lovely face had accompanied Him to places he chose to forget. She'd been the one spot of beauty in an existence of ugliness. Yes, she had kept him safe. Yet he had failed to keep her safe in return.

He stared at her image resting in his palm, and a vivid memory rose in his mind's eye. The day she'd been born. His father's disgust with his wife for presenting him with a girl. His exhausted mother's sadness. Creeping into the nursery that night, staring at the tiny, cooing bundle. 'It doesn't matter that Father doesn't like you,' he'd whispered, his five-year-old heart filled with resolve. 'He doesn't like me either. I'll watch over you.' She'd wrapped her minuscule fist around his finger and that, quite simply, had been that.

A myriad of images flashed through his mind. Teaching Margaret to ride. Helping her rescue a bird with a broken wing. Patching up the scrapes she'd sustained when she fell from a tree limb, so their father wouldn't scold her. Escaping to the quiet of the forest to evade the constant strain and arguing in the house. Teaching her to fish, then rarely ever catching more fish than she. Acting out Shakepeare's plays. Watching her grow from an impish child into a beautiful young woman had filled him with deep pride. We were all we had in this unhappy family, weren't we, Margaret? We made it bearable for each other. What would I have done without you?

But he had failed her.

His lingers closed around the miniature. Like Samantha Briggeham, Margaret had been forced to wed, a fact Eric hadn't forgiven his father for, even when he lay on his deathbed. He had bargained innocent, beautiful Margaret away like a piece of jewelry to elderly Viscount Darvin, who wanted an heir. Rumors of Darvin's debauchery had circulated through the ton for years, but he had possessed the attributes Eric's father had sought when making the match-money and several unentailed estates. In spite of his own substantial holdings, Marcus Landsdowne had greedily wanted more. He'd thought nothing of Margaret's feelings, and the marriage had devastated her. Eric had been fighting on the Peninsula at the time and had been unaware of her situation.

He'd been too late to rescue Margaret.

But he'd vowed upon his return to help others like her, and bring attention to their plight. How many poor young women were forced into unwanted marriages each year? He shuddered to consider the number. He'd tried to convince Margaret to leave Darvin, promising he'd help her, but she'd refused to dishonor her marriage vows, and he had reluctantly honored her decision.

Since first donning his costume five years ago, he'd helped more than a dozen young women escape. And by doing it with such dash and drama, rather than by quiet financial means, he'd succeeded in bringing the problem to national attention.

He'd accomplished his goal, perhaps too well. Several months ago a reporter for The Times had dubbed him the Bride Thief, and now it seemed as if everyone in England hankered for information about him-most especially the magistrate who was determined to unmask the Bride Thief and put an end to what he called 'the kidnappings.'

A substantial reward was offered for his capture, igniting interest in his activities even further. Arthur had recently reported a rumor that several irate fathers of 'stolen' brides had banded together with the common goal of capturing the Bride Thief. Eric rubbed his fingers over his throat. The magistrate, not to mention the fathers, wouldn't be satisfied until the Thief hanged for his crimes.

But Eric had no intention of dying.