Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction based on White Collar which belongs to Jeff Eastin and USA. It is in no way intended to infringe on the copyrights of Jeff Eastin and USA.

Thanks to Antoinette for beta reading

Special Thanks to Mam711 for your beta reading, and editing, without which this story wouldn't have come together.

Stand and Deliver

The late 17th and early 18th Century was a time of pirates and highwaymen; without a police force, only the thief taker and the local militia under the control of the High Sheriff of the county kept the law of the land.

The penalty for highway robbery was hanging, and once caught, a highwayman, once king of the High Toby (18th Century slang for Highway), was nothing more than a rotting corpse swinging from a gibbet. It was a time of highwaymen such as the Frenchman Claude Duval (1643 – 21 January 1670). The highwaymen like Duval were the rock stars of this era.

Neal Caffrey's highwayman is based on part on Claude Du Val, a French-born man. Du Val became a successful highwayman who robbed the passing stagecoaches on the roads to London, especially Holloway between Highgate and Islington. However, unlike most other brigands, he distinguished himself with rather gentlemanly behaviour and fashionable clothes. He reputedly never used violence.

There are many tales about Du Val. One particularly famous one he took only a part of his potential loot from a gentleman when his wife agreed to dance with him in the wayside, a scene immortalised by William Powell Frith in his 1860 painting, Claude Du Val.

The street bard's poem is adapted from the one written for Claude Du Val or Duval and is in old English, author unknown.

Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies was published in the early 18th Century, and was a guide book of sin for anyone living or visiting London.

The rescue of Neal Caffrey was inspired by the film Plunkett and Macleane

Glossary taken from The Vulgar Tongue (Buckish slang and pickpocket eloquence by Francis Grose, published 1785)

Cully – a blockhead.

Doxy – a whore

Fop - a man overly concerned with his appearance and clothes

High Pad – a highwayman

Lift the linen – homosexual act

Molly – a whore as in Molly House (male brothel), meaning male prostitute.

Tyburn Jig – the action when you're hung of kicking and twisting as you suffocate

Tyburn – a three-legged structure; for execution, the rope is thrown over one of the beams and then put round the neck of the prisoner, the other end is attached to a horse that pulls on it, so suffocating the prisoner who is pulled up in the air, kicking and thrashing. There is no drop so the neck is not broken.

Warning for Pre-OT3, main characters Neal, Peter and Elizabeth.

Part One

London

London was a dangerous place to live; the smart addresses were only a stone's throw, or a wrong turning, away from the worst parts of the city. There was no middle ground. Money was the only way to jump the social divide; it was either earned or stolen, and with employment in short supply the latter was the most popular choice. In a city like London, if you wandered in the wrong area it was at your peril, and if you were lucky you might just lose your pocket watch, and if not, your life.

The streets were filthy and rat-ridden, and for every five buildings one of them was a public house selling its own cheap grin that could rot the brain, but for the people living in cheap dives they called home it was their own release from their misery.

The brothels of Drury Lane were well-known and frequented by men with money, yet turn a street into Moon Street, and the price dropped the whores were cheaper and the pleasure more risky. Another block and the price was down too; the pleasure was taken down an alleyway up against a wall.

Major Peter Burke had arrived back in England a scant five months ago, after spending the last ten years in the Caribbean as a militia officer tasked with hunting and bringing to justice the thieves that preyed on the good God-fearing people of the towns and villages.

Whereas many people had sickened and rotted away due to the heat and disease, Peter had flourished and even met his wife there. Elizabeth Hughes, as she had been, was a feisty woman that knew her mind; she had turned down the man her father had wanted her to marry. Instead she had picked him, telling him that she had known that he was a man she could love and respect, and would never marry a lesser man.

Her father, Sir Reese Hughes, had given in with surprisingly good grace, and it had been the wedding of the season on the islands, so when his mentor, patron and father-in-law, Sir Reese, was called back to England on the death of his older brother to take over the title of Viscount, Peter had followed him back to England. It was a very different one from the one he had left: Oliver Cromwell had died, his son Richard had turned down the throne, and he and Parliament had invited Charles Stuart to regain the throne as Charles II.

When Peter had returned, he had brought with him his wife's companion, Diana, widowed sister to Clinton Jones, his most trusted subordinate, who also accompanied him;, together they would start a new life in England.

Clinton Jones was an unusual man; he had stunned the whole of the militia when he had turned up on their doorstep determined to be recruited into Peter's elite unit. Jones had put up with a lot of abuse because he was a former slave, but he had proved himself to be a staunch and true man, and when he had risen to the rank of sergeant, there was none in the unit that would have said a word against him.

Now as Peter walked the streets of the city, it was with Jones at his side. The ladies were back at the tavern packing for the journey back to the small Tudor fortified house that the Burkes now called home. If he was honest, Peter was pleased for a little peace and quiet; the two women were a strong-willed pair, and they both refused to allow male expectations of womanly endeavours to hold them back, which could make for a lively time. So this was a rare treat, not that he or Jones would want it any different, but there were times when a man just wanted to down a mug of ale in peace and quiet.

Peter watched as Jones carefully folded up some bright ribbon that he had bought from a street stall as a gift for his wife and was musing on the fact it might be a good move to bring Elizabeth some small trinket back from his walk, when they passed one of the many whorehouses. The house wasn't one of the best: the paint was peeling from the building, and the girls were out on the streets catching the arms of passing men, trying to steer them inside. Peter shook his head; some of the painted hussies were even propositioning the men when they walked past with their ladies on their arms laughing loudly, yelling out saucy comments at the way the decent men hid their faces behind their hands and blushed as they hurried away.

Seeing Peter and Jones walking along the opposite side of the road, one, bolder than the rest, called out as she flashed her breasts at them, "Come on, mister, a quick fuck and you can even keep your shoes on."

It was then there was a sudden commotion from the whorehouse, which brought both men to a halt. There was the sound of shouting and then of shutters flying open on the upper floor and the sight of a man jumping out, long shirt flapping round his thighs, boots on his feet, a pair of pants and a jacket thrown over his shoulder, clutching his sword in his hand. The young man hit the ground, rolled and came up to his feet as graceful as a cat. He was tall, lean, with dark hair coming loose from a ribbon tied at the nape of his neck. He was good looking, and he was grinning broadly as if this was the most fun he had had all day.

There was more commotion from the window as one of the whores, bare breasted, leaned out, waving a hat at him. "Neal," she yelled, at the same time doing her best to block the soldier that was trying to get past her.

The young man looked up as a tri-corner hat came sailing out of the window; he caught it, flipped it onto his head with a flourish and then saluted her with a wave. It was then he saw Peter and their eyes met; the handsome, younger man suddenly smiled at him and shrugged, then took off at a run.

Jones pulled his flintlock and levelled it at the running man, as he said, "Sir."

Peter reached out and pressed the pistol's barrel down as he shook his head, an amused smile on his face. "Let him go, Jones." He glanced back at the whorehouse. "This has got to be one hell of a story."

Just then an angry voice cut across them. "Why didn't you fire?" Peter turned to see a Dragoon officer striding towards him, his face bright red with rage. "You heard me, man," he demanded. "Why didn't you fire?"

"I am not in the habit of shooting men escaping from whorehouses; if I did, the streets of London would be knee deep in corpses," Peter said, looking the officer up and down with barely-concealed contempt. He had seen this type of officer before, all pretty gold braid, a fop that had bought his commission while better men were left behind. When the officer opened his mouth, Peter cut in, introducing himself, "Major Burke; you have a problem, Captain?"

The Dragoon officer's mouth opened and then closed. "My apologies, sir, but we had Neal Caffrey within our grasp and he escaped; the man ..." he added bitterly,"... is as slippery as an eel."

"Caffrey," Peter frowned, "and the reason that you're hunting him?"

"Sir," the officer said, surprise showing on his face, "Neal Caffrey is the Gentleman Highwayman; he is wanted across three counties."

Peter's voice took on the bored tone of a superior officer, "I am newly returned to England; I have yet to become acquainted with your lawbreakers." Smiling, Peter added after a pause, "Come, Captain, tell me more about him while we enjoy a dish of coffee." Peter nodded towards the coffee house; the officer looked back to the whorehouse, clearly torn.

"I will join you shortly, sir, if I may. I have a little business to conclude with Old Meg; she had been warned about harbouring highwaymen, and she will have to pay the price now—it's Newgate Prison for her."

Watching as the dragoon headed back to the whorehouse, Peter looked back down the street and then frowned as he saw the figure leaning against the side of one of the houses, the hat pulled down, shielding the eyes: Peter was sure it was Caffrey. Shaking his head, he dismissed it; the man would have to be crazy to stay around. But even so, curiosity made him turn back and have another look at the man, only to find that he was gone.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Three weeks later on the High Road

It was early evening and the sun was still high enough in the sky to spread a golden haze across the countryside. An evening for lovers, for poets, but certainly not for travellers.

The coach was heading across the countryside; it had already stopped at the Blue Boar, and was now making good time to its next stop of Southwick. Elizabeth was dozing against Peter's arm, as her father, Sir Reese Hughes, relaxed opposite them, his hands resting on his stomach. The coach came to a halt, almost throwing them off their seats, as a pistol shot and a voice rang out, "Stand, stand I tell you."

Sir Reese Hughes put a hand out, signalling Peter to stay still, poked his head out of the window, and found himself looking into the barrel of a pistol held in a hand that was as steady as stone; its owner was cloaked and masked, and sat on an all-black horse.

The highwayman's voice had a pleasant timbre to it, as if it was one big joke, a jape, a summer fooling, but his words were contained and to the point. "Get out of the coach, now, before I fill your coachman's belly with lead."

Sir Reese Hughes frowned, then addressed the man sitting next to the coachman. "Don't try anything, Jones; throw down your blunderbuss and do as he says." Pushing the door open, Sir Reese stepped down from the coach and then reached a hand for Elizabeth to assist his daughter down onto the dusty road. In his sixties, there was no weakness in Sir Reese; he ruled his house and his family with a rod of iron, and he would show no fear even when facing the pistol of a highwayman. He looked up at the highwayman. "You, sir, will pay for this, when you do the Tyburn Jig in London."

The highwayman chuckled. "You have to catch me first, Sir Reese, and you're a long way from doing that. Now your valuables, gentlemen." He paused. "And if the other cove would join us first, I wouldn't like him to feel alone."

For all his appearance of carefree abandonment, Peter was sure as he stepped down that the highwayman was on edge. Peter believed in book learning and had read each report that he could find on Caffrey and the other so-called Gentlemen of the Road. The stylish cut of the clothes, the pure white shirt, the all-black clothing, the silver-threaded waistcoat, the black silk scarf covering the lower part of his face, and the magnificent horse all pointed this at being Caffrey; if so, they stood a good chance of leaving short of their silver and trinkets, but in good health.

Peter wanted to believe it was Caffrey because Elizabeth was present, and Caffrey was always a gentleman; he had been known to dance a measure with a lady passenger one time, to the pennywhistle of a shepherd boy. Caffrey didn't believe in killing the people he robbed.

But the danger point in the robbery was coming; the highwayman would know that robberies where women were present were always higher risk, because one or more of the men might want to impress the lady by showing their mettle against him. Not that this would happen this time: he and Sir Reese were old hands at this game; they would give Caffrey an escape route and hunt him down later. But of course Caffrey didn't know that, and the young highwayman would be on edge, expecting a possible attack.

Peter could see that Caffrey was taking in his clothes, looking at him critically, seeing that he wasn't dressed like a gallant or a dandy; Peter couldn't miss the slight shake of the head and sigh that Caffrey gave. "Sir, if a man can't dress well he shouldn't dress at all."

"These clothes suit me well enough, as you know, Neal Caffrey."

The highwayman chuckled. "Major Peter Burke," his voice seemed to dwell on the name. "This is an unexpected delight."

"How do you know my name?" Peter demanded.

"One, my dear Peter, should always know his adversary."

"Major Burke to you, Caffrey; now get on with what you're doing, we have a dinner cooling on the table."

"I wouldn't want you to miss your meal." He paused then almost purred, "Peter, as if I would do that to you. So reluctantly I must ask you for your money, and your trinkets and dainty wipes." A wave of his hand encompassed them all.

Elizabeth was intrigued by the highwayman; she had sat up at night hearing her husband plan the traps and schemes that would bring this highwayman to the rope. But there was a note to her husband's voice when he spoke of Caffrey that intrigued her.

"Mrs. Burke, open your purse, my lady, and empty it onto the ground."

"Sir, a lady's purse is…." Elizabeth trailed off she could see it wasn't going to work—and upended the purse. "Whoops," as the small pistol fell to the ground.

Instead of being angry, Neal just laughed, then turned to Sir Reese Hughes.

"Now, Sir, your goods. For as nice as this meeting has been, your money, or reluctantly, your life: it is your choice. Now give it to the lady, she can deliver it to me. Mrs Burke, I do not have all evening; the goods please."

Elizabeth took a step forward. "Peace, Peter, he will not hurt me." Elizabeth approached Neal carefully. "So I finally get to meet you; it's almost worth the toll you have imposed on us." Seeing the puzzled look she added, "My husband is obsessed with catching you; you share our table most nights, Mr. Caffrey; did you know that?" She handed him up the trinkets, and watched as he stowed them into his pockets. It was then that the devil must have taken him because the next minute she was scooped up and placed on the saddle in front of him.

Peter started forward only to come up short with a pistol aimed at his head. "I don't like pistols, Peter, but unfortunately they're a necessity in my line of business," Neal said, then added, "You should know I will not steal the lady away, but I will give her something to remember me by." The kiss he gave her was passionate and then as Peter started forward with a roar, she was tossed into his arms and Caffrey dug his heels into his horse's belly and took off at a gallop.

Peter hugged Elizabeth close, even as he yelled, "Caffrey, I will hunt you down, and you will hang: that is my promise."

Caffrey pulled his horse to a halt that nearly made it sit down on its haunches and took his tri-corner hat off with a flourish in a salute to them both as he yelled back, "You have to catch me first, Peter," and then turned his horse away again and kicked it into a run, melting into the twilight.