The Scarred Duchess: A Saga Based on the Characters of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

Prologue

July 1807, St Albans

He read the note again.

Look for the large rock on the left two miles after the coaching inn.

He cantered on, swivelling his head repeatedly from left to right and back again. It would not be the first time he had received inaccurate directions. Minutes later, he spotted the large stone ahead. A fallen tree lay in front of it.

“‘So far, so good. So much is done to good purpose,’” he recited aloud. My ancestor would be proud of my use of his phrase, even if in an ironic sense.

He took his time tying a rope around the log. The two missing fingers on his right hand made the task more difficult than it should have been. Once completed, he walked the log and his horse half a mile further. With a little difficulty, he placed the timber so that a few feet protruded into the right edge of the road. That should do it.

He rode back to the stone, before dismounting and walking his horse deep into the treefall, where he secured the beast and removed a pistol and musket. He returned to a point ten feet from the road and, confirming his line of sight was clear, leant back against a tree and waited.

Twenty minutes later, a carriage announced itself. He knelt; his musket aimed high. He adjusted his grip to compensate for his injury.

When the carriage drove into his sight, he pulled the trigger. The blast was loud. Through the smoke, he saw the driver fall off his seat and disappear behind the transport.

He picked up his pistol and fired it at the ground beneath the horses. One reared, the other roared. They pulled against their bridles; the carriage violently yanked forward. High-pitched screams faded as the driverless carriage galloped away. Damnation.Must be ladies inside as well. He placed his weapons in his kit bag and pulled the quick knot that untied his horse.

A moment later, the expected—and welcome—crash filled the air, followed by wood tearing and splintering. He rode slowly towards it, and found what remained of the carriage resting on its side. A girl lay face up on the ground. Her head was tilted at an odd angle. Broken neck. He nudged her head with his boot. Dead. He climbed up the wreckage and peered inside. A young woman lay on her side, moaning. No one else was in the carriage.

His teeth clenched in anger, he inhaled and exhaled a few times. The carriage was to have carried his targets—the earl and the viscount. Instead, he had injured a lady and killed her companion. The woman coughed and rolled from her side to her back. Her blonde hair, matted with blood, covered most of her face. Shards of glass surrounded her head in a life-threatening tiara.

Turning backwards at the repetitive clopping of hoofbeats that signified another carriage, he quickly remounted and rode off. His stomach rumbled from hunger. He would eat at the Meryton coaching inn.

She seemed to be a beauty. Poor lass.