The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) Read Free

don’t want to be a soldier and I don’t want to be an innkeeper. I want to have pamphlets and ballads written about me. I want to be a highwayman just like you.”
    “Then learn to act the gentleman first. There’s plenty of those come through the inn. Watch them. Learn their manners and proper speech. Learn to do more than scratch out your name. I’ll talk to Winslow about finding you a tutor or sending you to the village school.”
    Allen eyed him with a suspicion. “And if I do that, you’ll take me with you on the North Road?”
    “No,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s not why I brought you here. I brought you here in hopes you’d make something of your life. You have choices and chances I never had. Besides, I’m a firm believer a man should make his own way to hell. But do as I say, and I will teach you a bit about using a sword. Come. I can smell dinner from here.”
    With Allen in tow, Jack ducked his head and stepped into the crowded inn.

 
     
     
CHAPTER TWO
     
     
    The busy swirl of conversation that hummed inside the Talbot came to a momentary halt as people turned to examine the latest arrival. Some of the patrons smiled and nodded at the newcomer, others looked him over dismissively and went back to what they were doing, and two proper young misses traveling through from London to York, whispered excitedly as they looked him up and down.
    Lean, rugged looking, and decidedly handsome, there was something vaguely disreputable and dangerous about him. Though he was dressed with casual elegance in fine leather boots and a blue-black coat that matched his hair, his jaw was unshaven, his lace cravat open, and his eyes had a wolfish gleam. He looked like a jaded London spark set upon mischief and adventure, and his late arrival, alone, with a serious looking rapier and a brace of pistols, suggested he knew what to do if he should find it. He looked precisely the sort of man impressionable young women found so fascinating and their parents strenuously insisted they avoid.
    He looked gentleman enough though, and those who didn’t know him—intrepid travelers, foolhardy tourists and gentlefolk heading out or returning home on business or pleasure, took him as one of their own.
     
    ~
     
    Careful as always, Jack perused the room in turn. Several men were playing cards at a corner table. He could have sworn they were the same men playing the same game he’d joined briefly on a visit three weeks ago. Then again, with their large stone hearths, plaster walls, and ceilings framed by sturdy oak beams, the coaching inns that looped the road from London to York like a ragged necklace all tended to look the same.
    Gifting the flustered ladies with his most charming grin, he ambled over to One-eyed Billy, whose patch gave him a rakish air despite his disfigurement, and Seven-string Ned, a diminutive personable rogue named after the colorful ribbons he wore at wrist and neck. He settled into his seat, elbowing his neighbors to make more room, and a moment later the motherly looking Mrs. Winslow was pinching his cheek as she placed a sizzling plate of sausages and potatoes in front of him.
    “It’s been too long since your last visit, Jack, my lad. I was growing worried you’d—”
    She gave a high-pitched squeal as he pulled her into his lap and bussed her cheek. “Bless you, Maggie. I’ve missed your cooking that much. You set the finest table of any coach house north of London. If you’ll find me a nice cold stout to wash it down, you’ll own my wayward heart. I swear I’ll be waiting under your window at midnight to spirit you away.”
    “Bah! To a life of drudgery cooking your meals and mending your clothes, no doubt. I’ve already got Mr. Winslow for that!” She pushed herself to her feet in mock outrage, her round face flushed with pleasure, and as if by magic, a tankard appeared next to his plate.
    “A fellow has to admit you’ve a fine way with old women,” Billy Wyse