Simon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton, put his hat upon his head and gave it a smart tap, setting it at its usual rakish angle, and stood on the deserted flagway, surveying his surroundings. He took a deep breath of the damp, dripping London air that promised a heavy rain before morning, lifting his head so that his face was revealed by the flambeaux on either side of the door to the gaming hell he'd quit a moment earlier.

Physically, His Lordship was a tall man who cast a long shadow. Strong, well built, and devilishly handsome into the bargain. His proud mother could boast of her only son's remarkable sherry-colored eyes and his flattering mane of darkest brown hair that had a simply delectable way of waving about his forehead and neck. His sideburns were the private envy of many of his acquaintance.

Added to his physical attributes was his wit -- his rather sardonic wit -- his generous fortune, his impeccable lineage and breeding. In short, the man could safely be termed as nearly perfect. Or he would be, according to a majority of the debutantes and their ambitious mamas who frequented the London Season, if only he were more interested in the wondrous institution of marriage. Which he most assuredly was not, and didn't plan to be so for many years to come.

Still, even considering his stubborn reluctance to make some simpering miss the happiest creature in the world, Viscount Brockton remained a prime physical specimen as he stood waiting for his coach to pull up to the curb. It had only just gone three, and he'd left his two good friends behind him to gamble the night away. For himself, he had been more than ready to quit the hell, his objective for the evening accomplished. While his mission could be begun in an evening, it couldn't be settled in that same short time span.

But that didn't matter. He was in no hurry.

This was another of Simon Roxbury's commendable attributes. He was a patient man. So patient, in fact, that he only smiled as his coachman pulled to the curb and the groom jumped down to help His Lordship with the door, apologizing for not having arrived sooner. There had been a small problem with the brake of the coach, the groom told him.

"A little bit of mizzle won't melt me," the viscount assured the sleepy-eyed groom, then mounted the steps the man had pulled down and launched himself forward, into the interior of his coach... where he abruptly found himself face-to-face with a loaded pistol.

"Sit down, sir, and tell your coachman to drive on," the dark shape behind the pistol ordered in a gruff but still unmistakably female whisper.

Simon turned his head, looking back out the door to where the groom stood not five feet away, oblivious to his predicament.

"Don't do it, I warn you, or I'll blow a hole straight through your head and laugh as your brains splatter all over this coach."

"What an unpalatable image," Simon remarked quietly, his mind already dismissing the possibility of being shot in order to concentrate on not being shot. He could probably let go of his two-handed grip on either side of the doorway to the coach, propelling himself backward onto the flagway as the bullet went whizzing harmlessly over his head and straight into the door of the gaming hell he had so recently vacated. Probably. But, as the pistol was rather heavy, and its owner noticeably nervous as she struggled to hold it with both hands, he could also end up being shot dead before he hit the ground.

"Very well," he said quietly, so that the groom would not hear him and investigate. "I'll sit down now, if you'll withdraw that evil-looking toy a bit, madam?"

"It's not a toy, and I would prefer you did not call me madam, for I am no woman, sir," his captor responded, as he levered himself into his seat across from her and the door closed behind him, locking them together in the darkness. "Now, order your coachman to drive on."

"Of course you're not a woman," Simon agreed as affably as possible. It was always best, he believed, to humor lunatics -- at least until they were disarmed. "How could I be so blind? You're a regular brute of a fellow, aren't you, at least in your heart and spirit? Pity that you've been cursed with so much of the feminine sex about you. And the voice and language of a well-bred female to boot. Yes, a man might be forgiven for believing you to be a female, although I don't believe I, myself, can remember too many proper young misses with a penchant for pistols. Such a shame. If you're a penniless second son embarked on a life of crime, I imagine being constantly mistaken for a female must prove no end of sorrow to you."

"Your death would give me no sorrow at all," she said, even as he noticed that his assailant's clog-clad feet did not quite touch the floor of the coach.

Cheeky little brat! he thought, longing to reach across the space dividing them, snatch up the pistol, and then tan the infant's backside with it. He could disarm her in an instant, less than an instant. All he had to do was remain passive, keep his smile intact, and then he could -- click.

Simon's smile never wavered, even as his plan changed the moment he heard the pistol being cocked. "Oh, dear, you're going to be fractious, aren't you? Isn't it time all incorrigible young children were home and tucked up in their cots?"

"I said," his captor repeated, ignoring his insult, "order your coachman to drive on. And wipe that odious, condescending grin off your face, if you please. This is a serious business."

"Oh, yes, quite. I can certainly see that," Simon agreed. He weighed the possibility that he was about to have a rather large hole blown in him by a perfect stranger against the curiosity he felt concerning the reason behind this assault. Curiosity, which had been leading from the moment this little adventure had left the gate, won by several lengths. "Very well, my fine young brigand, I'll do as you ask. But only because I am amused -- for the moment."

He leaned forward, causing the "young brigand" to shift quickly to the corner of her seat -- the pistol still cocked and pointing in his direction -- and opened the small door giving access to the coaching box. "Hardwick," he called out sharply, "you and I will be having words on the morrow concerning the depth of the devotion in which you hold your esteemed employer. I believe, you must understand, that a certain lack of vigilance on your part may have served to land that employer in an exceedingly undesirable position."

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord?" Hardwick asked, his florid face appearing in the small boxy opening in the roof of the coach. "Oi don't know wot yer talkin' about, m'lord, by the 'oly, I don't. Oi've jist been sittin' 'ere as it was comin' on ter mizzle, waitin' on yer, loik always. Oh, and fixin' the brake, o'course."

"That's reassuring, Hardwick," His Lordship responded genially, slanting a look toward his captor, who was now no more than three almost effortlessly breached feet away from him. The pistol, a mere two. And easily grabbed -- if he was still so inclined. He was not. The pistol was cocked, and the chances of one of the pair of them being shot quite dead were high. Daring was one thing, redbrick stupid was quite another. "Otherwise, Hardwick, my good man," he continued after a pregnant pause, "I might be forced to believe you to be disloyal."

"Would you stop prosing on like some vacant-headed ninny and just tell him!" the intruder whispered fiercely, waving her pistol, rather wildly Simon thought.

"Patience, my dear, patience. I thought you might wish to listen to Hardwick talk. You hear how he drops his 'aitches'? You might want to practice that, yes, if you plan to make a habit out of holding up coaches?" As his captor growled low in her throat, he again mentally measured the distance between himself and the barrel of the pistol. No. It really was too much of a gamble. "Oh, very well. I was just trying to help. No need to get your back up. Now, do you have a particular destination in mind, or will I be forced to bother dear, obtuse Hardwick a second time?"

"Order him to drive toward Hampstead Heath. There's an inn there, the Green Man. Do you know it?"

"Hampstead Heath? Or, as Hardwick would say, 'ampstead 'eath? The aitches again, remember? That I do, and the Green Man as well. Know where they both are, I mean. And green I would be, indeed, to venture anywhere near that den of thieves after dark. Can't you think of some place closer to town?" Simon sighed theatrically. "Ah -- there you go, waving that pistol again. Oh, very well. Hardwick--" he called out, "to the Green Man, my good fellow. And make haste. I've a sudden urge to be relieved of any worldly possessions I might have upon my person."

He then sat back against the squabs once more, crossed one leg over the other and both hands across his chest as the coach moved off over the cobblestones. He grinned, feeling rather wicked. "'appy now, my dear?"

"Immensely so, my lord, if you must know," his kidnapper replied in a rather appealingly husky yet wonderfully feminine voice, one that was much more interesting than her purposely gruff whisper. Had he met her somewhere in Society? Danced with her? Supped with her? Insulted her in some way? He thought not. That voice was much too singular to have been forgotten. "Now, just sit there and be good," she ordered tightly, then said nothing more for a long time -- until Hardwick had driven them free of the city, as a matter of fact.

Simon also kept his own counsel, although his mind was far from quiet. He was wondering, as it happened, how on earth he would ever live down being robbed by a mere girl if the news were ever to become public knowledge. A gentleman did, after all, have his reputation to consider.

Besides, it was late, and he was mightily fatigued, and possibly even bored. No, he was most definitely bored. This realization of his rather incomprehensible reaction to the grave danger he might be in was enough to keep him awake for a little while. But, after a bit, surprised at himself as he was, the gentle movement of his well-sprung coach actually lulled him into a light slumber.

He may even have snored.

"Aren't you in the least interested in why I have abducted you?" she asked at last, chagrin evident in her tone, anger more than evident in the force behind her hard kick to his shin.

"Truth be told, not particularly," the viscount answered honestly, yawning widely as he pushed himself up from the comfortable slouch he had slid into during his nap. He had been gambling and drinking rather deep for several hours, and now yearned more for his bed than he did for information. "But I rest easy in the knowledge that you will tell me everything I need to know in your own good time. That will be soon, won't it? I'm for bed, you understand, scintillating as your company has been this past half hour or more."

"God, but you're insufferable!" She directed another kick at him. "I should shoot you now, just on general principles."

Simon resisted the impulse to rub at his now twice-insulted shin, for clogs were a considerable weapon. But the girl was beginning to wear on his nerves. "I'd be more comfortable if yours was a unique statement," he said, always at his most excruciatingly polite when he was most vexed. "However, since it is not, I suppose I should spend the next few days in deep reflection, considering how I have so abused my fellow man -- and woman -- as to have been termed insufferable so often, by so many. Is there perhaps an organized group of you? Do you hold meetings? Keep minutes of all that is discussed? I could peruse them, learn to pinpoint my more gross failings -- if I am not shot dead before sunrise, of course?"

"Oh, just shut... up!"

"So sorry," he apologized insincerely, now wondering how much longer the young woman could hold on to the cocked pistol without it going off. "Consider me a monk, sworn to a vow of silence."

"If I believed that, I'd believe anything, and I don't believe I believe that," his captor shot back with what he had to admit was complicated candor. A candor that made the potentially dangerous brat all the more interesting to him.

The whole time he had spoken and, indeed, for much of the time he'd spent in the coach, Simon had been cursing the darkness that kept his captor's face and form hidden from him. He had, however, at least been able to deduce that she was not at all tall, fairly slim -- and that she smelled of lavender water and horse. Not an entirely unpleasant combination. Her accent was cultured, educated. She had only a hint of the country miss about her -- one blessed with any number of brothers who had taught her manners, words, and expressions she should not know. This also confused him. Not being in the habit of seducing innocent country maids, he could think of no innocent young woman who would wish him injury or death.

Which left him with the notion, not too odd, that he was being driven into the countryside to be handed over to yet more kidnappers who would then solicit a ransom from his sure to be appalled mother, the Viscountess Brockton. His mother would be horrified, frightened, and as dependably scatterbrained as was her custom. This, unfortunately, would probably also mean that he would be at the mercy of his captors for at least a week before the viscountess recalled the location of the Roxbury family solicitors and gained access to the funds required to free him.

Of course, that also meant he would miss Lady Bessingham's bound-to-be crushingly boring rout scheduled for the next evening, which couldn't be considered entirely a bad thing.

His captor pushed aside a corner of the leather curtain and peeked out into the countryside, just now beginning to grow light with the coming of yet another damp English dawn. She let the shade fall back into place. "We're nearly at our destination, so I suppose it is time I got on with this."

"Got on with this?" Simon repeated, a small part of him at last beginning to take the evening's adventure seriously. "Would that mean that you're going to hand me over to more kidnappers, or that you are simply going to shoot me and run off with my coach? Be gentle with Hardwick and the groom, I beg you. They may put up a slight protest in concern for their master, and I wouldn't wish them injured in any way."

"Kidnappers?" The girl's tone was incredulous, and Simon exercised his jaw muscles, wishing he had exercised them less a moment earlier. Clearly the girl had not considered kidnapping, or ransom. Had he now put that idea into her head? And was that idea better or worse than the one that had instigated his abduction? "Good God, man, I wouldn't want you in my company above another ten minutes. Why on earth would I want to hold you for ransom?"

"Then you do plan to shoot me," Simon said, his relaxed pose belying the fact that he was fully prepared to wrench the pistol from her bound-to-be-tired grasp. "But you hadn't planned to do that just on general principles, if I remember correctly. Which means you have a definite reason for this small travesty. Would it be too much if I were to ask you to explain yourself?"

The pistol remained steadily pointed at his chest, perhaps even a bit more steadily than it had this past thirty minutes or more. "At last you're interested? I had begun to think you hadn't a brain in your handsome skull for anything more than how best to fuzz a card!"

Simon grinned, relaxing once more. Clearly the chit wanted to talk much more than she wished to shoot. "My handsome skull? Oh, you do flatter me, madam. Please go on. But what's this about fuzzing cards? I assure you, madam, that Viscount Brockton is known for many vices, but cheating at cards is not amongst them."

He watched as the pistol drooped slightly, then was righted. "Viscount Brockton? What the devil are you talking about? Who is Viscount Brockton?"