Chapter 1
Grace waved a Queen Anne pistol, though she could not say in which direction. The situation was slipping from her hands and all because of this unmanageable man. Blast Botkins for hinting a gun was beyond her handling. Curse her own pride for not taking time to learn to aim.
“Stand and deliver,” she repeated, louder this time, her breath clouding through the black veil. Her victim’s his saddle bags bulged with promise. Hand them over and she’d be gone before he thought to wonder where.
The horse pawed at the ground, but the man restrained his mount. “Move aside, madame.” His voice was devilishly composed, while her pulse swelled and whooshed.
She filled her lungs with the mist of early morning and steadied her trembling arm, not without effort, for the pistol weighed three pounds.
“I will shoot,” she said. But, of course, she would never.
With her free hand, she swatted at an insect that buzzed somewhere near her right ear. Pain exploded on her neck, sharp and hot. She recoiled against the sting, slapping at whatever still flew around her head.
Her finger clenched over the trigger. The world fractured into a violent crack.
The strangest detached feeling overtook her faculties even while the skin above her collar ignited.
She pressed her palm over her the stinging on her neck as mesmerizing smoke wafted from the pistol like a tiny chimney.
Sulfur burned her nose. She shook the vibration from her arm and tossed her head against the ringing in her ears.
Thank the merciful heaven she had never practiced her aim.
“See? I am not afraid to employ force.” Her words quaked into the fog, a humiliating show of weakness.
No one replied. She glanced up. The horse remained, but the man had gone. Strange. Now she considered it, the horse should have run off. The beautiful beast in front of her must be worth a fortune. A day’s work done well.
The animal’s ears lay flat against its head as she approached.
“I will brush your velvet coat and braid your pretty tail. You will like my stables.” She cooed and coaxed, easing toward him, even as fire crawled under her skin. She slapped at it, causing the horse to twitch. “I’ll ignore the agony, if you stay right there.”
Reaching for the horse's leads, her gaze caught on an unnatural blue mound to one side of the animal.
A wild cry shredded her throat. She stuffed her hand in her mouth and rushed to the victim, rolling him onto his back.
Blood in the form of burgundy fingers unfurled over his silk breeches.
The fabric would never be the same. What sort of man dressed in so impractical a color?
A hole, that could be mended, but blood…
Pox on it.
Grace ran into the woods. She would not be hanged, not on that day, nor any other. Confound it, perhaps this nonsense should cease. Taking from the rich was excusable but not murder.
Had she really used that blasted pistol? The idiocy of loading it. She blamed Botkins. If he had not tempted her against black powder, she never would have done it. Bloody blast.
Breathing hard, Grace paused to check her direction. The path lay a little to the right, marked by a trail of red poppies.
Red. The color of blood. And she, a murderer. Could she leave a dead man in the middle of the road? What if he were merely wounded?
She hitched her skirts and scampered back the way she came. If he was dead, she must hide him.
A few feet from the man, her toe caught on something, and she tumbled into a pile of wet leaves. She crawled to him and held her hand over his mouth.
He breathed.
But then what? She could not hoist him onto the horse. His lashes fluttered. And curse him for possessing the thickest, longest lashes she’d ever seen.
“Good sir, you’ve been shot. Can you stand?
” She slapped his cheeks to no effect, then rifled through her petticoat until she located her pocket.
A sheathed knife. A pilfered snuff box. Scissors.
A handkerchief. Ah. The salts. She withdrew the vial and waved it beneath his noble, straight nose, while fishing for the handkerchief to stop the blood.
He moaned, and his eyes flew open.
“That’s right. Stand up, and I’ll help you to your horse.”
“You shot me.” His rasping voice conveyed profound indignation.
“Me? What a thing to say to your rescuer. I heard the bang and ran toward the noise, saw your horse, then your blood on the ground. Come now. I’ll take you home. Botkins knows what to do.”
“I can’t move.”
Grace sighed. “You can.” She stood and extended her arms. “Take my hands.”
He raised a brow, which Grace took as a positive sign. No almost-dead person could express doubt to such effect.
“I am small but strong,” she said.
“It hurts.”
“Of course it does, but we cannot allow a little pain to prevent you from receiving help.” She reached down and took both his wrists. “One, two, three.” She pulled with every bit of strength her short legs contained.
His grunt became a bellow, but he sat.
“Keep it down. Noise absorbs strength.”
“You’re afraid I’ll alert someone.”
The sun was fast swallowing the morning haze, so, yes, notifying someone worried her a great deal.
She widened her eyes. “I am concerned for your life.”
“You shot me.” His words slurred, and sweat flecked his forehead. There wasn’t much time.
“No such thing. Now, stand and mount your horse.” She stood on the side opposite to the wound and pulled his arm around her shoulders.
“Here we go.” She counted, then strained from a squatting position to her feet.
“Are you filled with rocks? Your horse must struggle under your weight. Good, a few more steps, and here we are. Slide into the stirrup, and I’ll help push you up. ”
His leg trembled, but he succeeded. Grace crouched beneath him, her shoulder under his derriere.
“I hope you are worth this effort. Come on then, pull up.” Her legs would smart on the morrow.
Once settled on the horse, the man slumped forward unconscious. Grace searched the heavens for mercy but found a sky growing ever brighter. At any moment, a farmer or milkmaid would cross their path.
She jumped and flung herself over the horse, her chest slamming into the cantle, half on the saddle half off.
She wiggled and pulled her way to sitting behind her captive.
With the scissors, she cut a long strip from his ruined coat and tied it over his eyes.
Likely an unnecessary precaution, but she could not risk his discovering the entrance to her hideout.
Reins in hand, her arms stretched around the slumped, bleeding man, preventing him from sliding to the ground.
The horse seemed to read her thoughts as she took him over the gentlest path the forest offered until they arrived at the high walls surrounding her home.
She paused, looking for the red poppies that that marked a gap in an overlapping wall.
They slipped between the invisible break without encountering another soul.
The horse stopped in front of the house without being told. A masterful animal, easy, patient, and collected. Perhaps the man would offer his horse as a reward for saving his life.
“Botkins,” she shouted. “Botkins.”
The gentleman had neither spoken nor moved since gaining his position atop the horse, and Grace hoped he’d not expired. She pulled the silk from his eyes.
“Botkins.”
A man emerged, running from the side of the house. Botkins stood over six feet and weighed almost eighteen stone but moved like a deer, lithe as well as enormous. His red hair flamed in the morning sun, but the scars on his face were not as visible as they had been a year prior.
Botkins stopped on sight of her, pausing to throw a string of expletives at her.
“Watch your tongue. We have company,” Grace said.
“Foolishness,” he said, his diction as polished as King George’s crown.
“Get this man into the bed in the south wing. I’ll meet you there when I’m clean. Is Susan in the kitchen?”
“Yes, and there is hot water for you to wash.” He kept the wounded gentleman from falling off the horse with one hand and helped Grace down with the other.
Grace stomped her feet to alleviate the prickling that accompanied blood rushing into her limbs. “Botkins, you are precious to me. Curse the day Susan snagged you for her own.”
Botkins cradled the wounded man like a baby. “Off with you, little vixen.”
“Is he dead?” she whispered. Her captive’s head lolled over Botkin’s shoulder, pale and limp as bleached linen, his right side saturated in blood.
“Not as yet.”
Grace led the horse to the stables, each movement a pull through air as thick as honey. A sticky stain covered her right sleeve. Bitterness scorched the back of her throat, and she couldn’t swallow it fast enough. She retched, the bell of her skirt taking the punishment.
The horse leaned his front shoulder against her, his pressure and warmth equal parts comforting and bewildering enough to recall her into action.
She unbuckled a saddle bag and reached in.
Her fingers met the closely packed paper.
Bank notes? Books? She looped her finger around a string and removed a bundle of printed paper.
She thumbed through them. They contained the same wording and image.
Political prints, hundreds of them. Garbage.
She’d shot a man for nothing. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to show one of the pages to the priest.
Hoping to find something more substantial, she dug deeper into the bag and pulled out a letter. An invitation addressed to the Honorable Mr. Elsworth.
From her own duke.
She read it again to ensure she understood.
My dear Peregrine,
The duchess and I would be pleased if you accepted an invitation to spend a fortnight in our home for the hunt. Lady Anne particularly wishes your presence.
We look forward to your company.
Stulton.
She had shot a friend of the duke, her duke. Good. This could change everything. If he—Peregrine Elsworth—did not die.