Chapter 1
Swann Hall
Sussex, England
“Samuel, stop the carriage!” Lady Florence Swann called to her driver when she noticed a massive black stallion standing by the side of the road and nibbling on sweet gorse. The beast was saddled, but it was the rider sprawled motionless on the grass beside the animal who commanded her attention.
Was this another robbery attempt gone bad?
Were those men galloping off in the distance the ones who had attacked him?
Lately, these robberies had been happening with concerning regularity along this quiet stretch of road between Brighton and her grandfather’s country estate, Swann Hall.
“Whoa,” the faithful family retainer cried and immediately drew the team to a halt. He reached for the hunting rifle kept close at hand. “Be careful, m’lady. It could be a trap.”
“Aye, m’lady,” said Ethan, the young footman who had been assigned to accompany her on her errands upon her grandfather’s insistence because of the lurking dangers. “Stay inside the carriage while I see what’s what.”
She waited with impatience, worried about the injured man and knowing she had to get to him fast.
“All clear, m’lady.”
She hopped down and ran to the fellow, kneeling beside him to carefully check the damage. “Ethan, did you notice those men riding off as we approached? They must have been the ones who set upon him, for his wounds look fresh. Oh, dear. Why would they hurt him?”
“Good thing they left his beast alone,” Ethan muttered. “Magnificent bit of horseflesh.”
“Which suggests his rider is a gentleman of means. Only the elite could ever afford a horse as fine as that Friesian.”
“Why did they not steal it?” he asked.
“Too distinctive an animal for them to dare take. A fine specimen, isn’t he?”
The footman nodded as he cautiously approached the skittish horse and patted him gently to soothe him. “Look at the muscles on the fellow.”
The same could be said of his rider, Florence noted as she carefully ran her hands along the man’s broad shoulders and back while he lay face down on the grass.
“A thief could never sell such an exquisite beast without immediately arousing suspicion. I’m glad those brigands did not harm the horse.
Unfortunately, his rider did not fare so well.
But I think we might have saved his life by coming along when we did. ”
“Aye, true,” said Samuel, stepping down from his driver’s perch to assist her as she struggled to turn the man over without causing him more harm.
“I was about to blow my horn to scare off his attackers, but they must have seen us first, for they rode off right quick the moment our carriage came over the rise. Still, be careful, m’lady.
The bloke looks to be a big fellow and strong. ”
“I wonder who he is?” Her heart fluttered as she perused his face and muscled form. “But look, he must be army. He’s wearing an officer’s uniform. Keep alert, Sam. You too, Ethan. Those brigands might become emboldened and decide to return to finish the job they started.”
“Unlikely, m’lady. But we’ll be ready if they do,” Samuel assured, raising his hunting rifle to show her that he had it in hand.
Ethan also had his weapon drawn, holding it in one hand while keeping hold of the Friesian’s reins with the other.
This recent spate of highway robberies had everyone on edge. Florence had taken to carrying a lady’s pistol in her reticule for this very reason, although she hoped never to have to use it.
Were it not for her need of new clothes, particularly a suitably elegant gown for the ball to be held at Normanton House next week, Florence would not be making these constant visits to her Brighton modiste.
But Aria Rocatti was a wonder, and Florence refused to consider going elsewhere for her new gowns.
The horse snorted several times and skittered backwards, but Florence’s gaze was fixed on the handsome fellow on the ground. His hair was as black as the coat on his stallion. His face was manly but still held a youthful vigor, so she estimated his age to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
There was an ugly gash on the man’s forehead that was dripping blood down the side of his face. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, and so was his face. “He must have fought fiercely.”
She quickly checked the rest of his body and inhaled sharply upon noting the pool of blood on the wool of his uniform jacket. “Oh, dear. He’s been shot. There’s a tear in the fabric just below his ribs.”
She unbuttoned his jacket to get a closer look at his wound, then withdrew her handkerchief and carefully dabbed at the blood that had soaked his shirt bright crimson at the spot.
“I think the ball went clean through, but hard to tell for certain. There’s a lot of blood.
Poor fellow. However, I see no other serious wounds. ”
She put a hand over his chest in the hope of feeling a heartbeat. “Ethan, he’s alive, but barely. We must get him to Swann Hall right away.”
“M’lady, is it wise?” His eyes rounded in surprise at the suggestion. “We have no idea who he is. He might have been one of those brigands and had a falling out with his companions.”
“Highly unlikely, the fellow is obviously rich,” she said, taking the shawl off her shoulders and wrapping it around his torso to fashion a tourniquet of a sort.
She hoped it would hold sufficiently until they got him back home.
“His horse alone gives him away. But also look at the fine leather of his boots.” She groped around the inside of his jacket for some document or other item that might give hint of his identity.
Goodness, his body was quite solid.
“I feel something,” she muttered, withdrawing an official looking document. “The seal is broken. It is a letter addressed to the Duke of Wellbourne. Oh, a meeting of some sort to take place between someone by the name of Lord Meade and the duke’s emissary. This man must be the emissary.”
“Seems someone meant to stop him from ever reaching their meeting spot,” Samuel remarked.
She perused the letter that gave a vague reference to a dangerous plot, details to be given when he and Lord Meade met at the Somerville ball to be held next week at Normanton House.
The very one she was attending.
She did not see how this man would heal in time. Only someone with the constitution of a bull could ever recover so rapidly.
Should she get involved? Offer her assistance?
After all, she and her grandfather would be there. It would take but a few minutes to seek out Lord Meade and tell him what had transpired.
“M’lady, we ought not linger,” Ethan advised.
“Right.” The letter caught in the stiff breeze and fluttered in her hand.
She tucked it into the bodice of her gown for safekeeping, and then glanced up at the row of soft, white clouds dotting the deep blue sky.
It was a cold afternoon, particularly cold for October, and not even the brightness of the sun could provide significant warmth.
“Help me get this man into the carriage.”
The footman sighed and shook his head. “It’ll take more than the two of us, m’lady.” He called Samuel over, and the three of them finally managed to haul him onto one of the leather seat benches.
Florence scampered in and decided to squeeze in beside him rather than sit across from him, carefully maneuvering so that his head rested upon her lap.
This way, she could keep better hold of him during the ride home.
It would also be easier for her to apply pressure to his ribs in order to stem the bleeding.
Ethan mounted the big Friesian who proved to be a gentle creature and offered no resistance when he climbed onto the saddle.
“Well trained beast,” he told Florence, giving her a nod of approval when she peered out the carriage window.
She eased back against the squabs and studied the man quietly resting in her arms. “Let’s hope you are as tame as your beast, sir.”
Samuel snapped the reins and the carriage jerked forward at a lively pace, unfortunately seeming to hit every bump in the road as they traveled fast. “Hold on, sir. We’ll soon have you home and properly tended.”
But she was worried.
Both her shawl and handkerchief were completely soaked in blood, and she could not tell if her ministrations were slowing the flow.
The gash on his forehead also oozed blood, but it was now a mere trickle.
“How much longer, Samuel?” The injured man was restless, and Florence’s arms were beginning to ache from the effort of holding him in place.
“Swann Hall coming into view, m’lady.”
“Thank goodness,” she muttered, afraid he would knock them both off the seat bench if he persisted in trying to sit up. “Please, sir. You mustn’t. I have you, but you must lie quietly. We’re almost home.”
She kept her voice soft and lilting since this seemed to soothe him.
“Turnin’ up the drive, m’lady,” Samuel called out as the horses sped toward the manor house, a lovely brick structure with ivy climbing up the walls.
Ethan rode ahead to summon their staff for help.
A small army of footmen scurried out of the house along with her grandfather as the carriage drew up in front of the house.
“We’re here, sir,” she whispered, leaning closer.
The man’s eyes flickered open to stare at her.
Her breath hitched, for his eyes were extraordinarily beautiful, a magnificent, dark gray. Quite splendid...and dangerous. “You’re awake.”
He drew her even closer, as though to whisper something in her ear.
But instead of talking, he captured her mouth in a scorching kiss that lasted no more than the count of three.
Dear heaven.
It was enough to mark her soul.
He released her with a groan and sank back onto her lap. “Who are you, lass?”
Lass?
She was a lady and almost the age of three and twenty.
“Lady Florence Swann,” she said stiffly. “Something you might have bothered to find out before you kissed me.”
His chuckle was deep and resonant. “Do not berate me, Florence.”
Ugh.
Why was he being so familiar with her?
It was bad enough he’d kissed her, but to now address her as though they had been lifelong friends?
Sighing, she decided not to chastise him since he was not well and the damage had already been done. “Why did you kiss me, sir?”
“It was most improper, I know. But should I not be permitted to kiss my angel?”
She laughed. “Oh, I hardly think I am that.”
“You are an angel, Florence. Mine,” he insisted, taking hold of her hand as it rested on his chest.
Honestly, if he knew her better, he would not be calling her anyone’s angel.
Much less his.
Nor should he be holding onto her hand.
In truth, it felt awfully nice even though his palm was rough and his knuckles were bruised and swollen.
She meant to protest but never got the chance, for the man had gone limp in her arms again.
Her grandfather threw open the carriage door and stared at the big fellow lying motionless in her embrace.
“Hello, Grandfather.”
“Oh, Florence. What mischief have you got into this time?”