Chapter Three
Justin pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, doing his best to dig deep into the last reserves of his patience.
“A minor inconvenience, Your Grace! I’ve already sent word to the nearest coaching inn.
They’ll bring us another wheel and then we’ll be well on our way!
” The coach driver, for some inexplicable reason, had deep and abundant wells of cheeriness.
In fact, neither the horse with the thrown shoe, the colossal downpour, the flooded bridge, the full inn, nor the broken spoke had dampened the man’s spirit.
“You can call me Justin, Briggs,” he told the driver for the millionth time, inspecting the cracked spoke himself.
And then for the millionth time, Briggs replied, “Oh no, Your Grace. That wouldn’t do… wouldn’t do at all. If Master Peverill knew I was speaking to a duke in that manner he’d have my hide.”
“Henry Peverill and I have been friends since Eton. If I say you can call me Justin, then I think he’d want you to call me Justin,” he replied, clapping a hand to Briggs’s shoulder. The driver went white, and Justin laughed.
“You’d think the richest shipping merchant in England would have access to a better carriage,” he added, daring Briggs to agree.
The driver only spluttered in response. “I told your Mr. Peverill that I’d be happy to take the mail coach up to Hertfordshire.
Wouldn’t hear of it. Though, now I think they must have sturdier wheels than this monstrosity,” Justin continued, gesturing to the gilt coach.
“He does have a taste for the dramatic, Your Grace,” Briggs dared.
Justin smiled. “How far away do you reckon we are?”
“Oh, a few country miles I’d say. Perhaps a good hour-long walk. But this road leads straight to Hollyhead.”
“Well, good thing I wore sturdy boots,” Justin said, adjusting his hat.
“Oh, Your Grace, please have a care! The roads are washed out from the rain. It won’t be long until we have the carriage fixed!”
“You stay here as collateral, Briggs, and do your best not to worry. I’ll meet you at the house later this evening, I presume,” he said, setting off on the path, dodging a rather large puddle.
As soon as he was around the bend, Justin loosened his necktie and doffed his jacket.
His clothing was more suited to a worksite in London than making a grand entrance that befitted a duke, but he was beyond caring.
It was an unseasonably warm April morning and he’d been stuffed in that ridiculous coach for two days.
It felt bloody brilliant to stretch his legs again, even if he would have rather it be along the Thames than a country lane.
His family would take occasional trips to the country when he was a child, mostly to escape the bustle of working-class London in the summers.
He always enjoyed those outings but never understood the appeal.
London was bursting with life and had its own rhythm.
The countryside too had its charms, but nothing that would tempt him to give up his bachelor’s apartments in the East End.
Still, the fresh air and birdsong were nice.
After half an hour, Justin stopped for a moment to wipe his brow.
The path had narrowed as he climbed a short but steep hill; the canopy of trees above seemed to collapse into one another, creating a tunnel.
Taking out a piece of charcoal and scrap of paper from his pocket, he decided to do a quick sketch to remember the landmark.
He might turn it into a pretty picture for Alice.
She’d asked him to write home as soon as he arrived and report on what he thought of Hollyhead and the surrounding countryside.
Just as he was finishing, he heard the drum of hoof beats approaching. Glancing over his shoulder, he expected it might be the carriage… but no, they were much too fast.
Then, a great hulking black demon came screaming around the bend in the road, directly in front of him. Justin barely had enough time to leap into the ditch when the beast lost its footing on the loosened gravel. A great whinny rang out as the horse threw its rider and fell on its side.
To his credit, the rider landed without so much as a groan. The horse, meanwhile, had righted itself, but was pawing the ground anxiously, snorting and pinning its ears.
“Good lord!” Justin said, walking over to where the rider was lying in a heap. “Are you all—”
And the words died in his throat.
It was a woman. The breeches and vest would not have hidden those curves for the world, nor would the shock of dark, curling hair that had been stuffed up under a worn tricorne. She stood to her feet, shaking badly, using a nearby branch to help hoist herself up.
“That… I’ve seen soldiers knocked unconscious from softer throws than that…” Mentally, he wanted to kick himself. He could hear Peverill in his ear now, teasing him mercilessly for that line. “I mean—are you all right, miss?”
“My horse,” she managed, bringing up the sleeve of her too-long shirt to dab at a bit of blood that welled at the corner of a cupid-bow mouth.
Stop. It. Justin warned himself. Was this why women went around in ridiculous costumes? Because men’s wear was far too fetching? Stupidly, he reached in his vest pocket and held out a handkerchief.
“My horse,” she tried again.
“Oh, um,” he said, spinning around to regard the black beast, who was now munching sedately on some long grass. “Appears to have made a full recovery.”
“Can you bring him to me?” she asked.
“Are you sure you should be riding? You took quite the fall.”
She still clutched onto the branch, wincing as she righted herself further, testing both legs to make sure they could hold her weight. “Please,” she whispered, her brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
In that moment, Justin would have conquered France had she asked it. Nodding his head, he approached the horse cautiously. The animal looked over at him and pinned its ears, the bit clanking between its clenched teeth. He hesitated.
“I promise he is friendly. You just need to be a bit firm with him,” she called.
Justin was not particularly fond of horses.
His father gave him some riding lessons, but there wasn’t much use for that skill in London, where one could hire a coach at a moment’s notice.
“Steady,” he told the horse, who continued to pin its ears.
Moving as slowly as he could manage, he reached for the beast’s reins.
The horse squealed at the indignity and pawed the ground.
Justin leapt back and cursed.
“Brutus,” the girl called, in a soft, sing-song manner. “Brutus, come here.”
As if by magic, the horse pricked its ears. With the demeanor of an overgrown puppy dog he trotted over to the wood nymph dressed in outdated men’s clothing. “That’s a neat trick,” Justin said as he watched her gather up the reins.
“Help me up,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Give me a leg up, please,” she repeated, a hint of annoyance spreading through her airy voice.
Justin was not used to taking orders from ladies, but he was half sure this was a mirage or some kind of drawn-out dream, so he obliged her. Taking her delicate shin in his rough hand, he hoisted her up into the saddle. She landed gracefully, but winced again.
“Please, miss, let me escort you back—”
“Thank you for your help,” she said, interrupting him. Then, with a flick of the reins she’d spun the horse around and taken off back the way she came, her hair streaming behind her like a tangled banner.