George let down the folding table from the side of the coach and played patience while they rolled through the intermittent storm. When she finally grew tired of the game she put the cards away and began reading Raspe’s Baron Munchausen’s Narrative of His Marvellous Travels and Campaigns in Russia. Ellen worked slowly at her tambour frame, steadily making progress on a white-work fichu which she kept carefully away from the Mastiff’s drooling maw.
The light thrown out by the candles burning behind glass was barely enough to read by. George couldn’t imagine doing needlework. But then George couldn’t imagine doing needlework under the best of circumstances. She’d simply never had the patience for anything more than a bit of plain sewing.
The sound of a shot cracked the night.
The coach rocked to a sudden halt, sending George sliding across the seat.
Caesar snorted and raised his head, ears cocked up attentively. Ellen’s eyes were wide, clearly visible even in the dark coach. George tensed beneath the thick fur of the carriage rug, hands and feet going cold, every nerve alive.
Outside there was shouting—her coachman’s voice, sharply overridden by another.
They were being held up.
There was no other possibility.
In the sudden quiet, George could hear the jangling of the harness as the horses fretted. The creak of wood and metal as the coach shifted. The thump of feet hitting the ground. Clearly James had been ordered down from the box. Where was Thomas? Had they shot him, or had that simply been a warning shot?
Heart fluttering up into her throat, George released the panel behind her head and removed the double-barrelled pistol hidden inside. Why hadn’t she brought outriders? Lord Exley was going to be furious if she lived to confess her foolishness. Brimstone would flay her alive. She’d never be allowed to travel without an escort again.
The shadow of a man moved past the small window, a deeper point of darkness in the inky night. The muddy roads had made for slow going. They should have reached the Three Greyhounds—and safety—hours ago.
George motioned Ellen to get behind her. The girl climbed past Caesar, one hand pressed over her mouth. She gave a muffled sob as George shoved her into the corner.
Caesar crouched on the floor, hackles raised, muscles tensed beneath his fur, two hundred and fifty pounds of sinew and bone poised for destruction.
George cocked one side of the gun and waited, kneeling on the seat, out of the dog’s way.
The man who opened that door was in for a nasty surprise. Two, really. George could almost feel sorry for him. And if she, and all her servants, survived, she might even be inclined to pity…to mercy.
But not at this exact moment. Now was not the time.
An eternity passed before the handle turned and the door was thrown open. George held her shot as Caesar sprang, his weight bearing the startled highwayman down.
The man screamed, scrabbling to escape. Curses filled the night, skittering about like bats erupting from a cave at dusk. The dog’s baritone snarls, nasty and brutish, made George’s hair stand on end.
Another shot rang out and the window of the coach shattered, showering the far seat with glass. Ellen screamed, breaking into loud, hiccupping sobs.
Anger bubbled up, cutting off reason and fear. If they shot her dog, she’d murder them slowly. Slowly and painfully. George leapt down, took aim, and fired. Powder flashed and the resulting explosion bloomed in the darkness. The nearest highwayman gave a muffled cry and fell from his saddle.
The familiar scent of sulphur perfumed the air, deadly and almost frightening for the first time in her life. George filled her lungs, drinking it in, reaching within herself for the courage of Boudicca.
The first man was pinned beneath Caesar, either dead or limp with terror. George couldn’t have cared less which. He deserved whatever happened to him. Wrath welled up within her, filling her to her fingertips. It warmed her, reassuring as an army at her back.
The third highwayman sat upon his horse, still as a statue, seeming to stare right through her. Daring her to shoot him.
George cocked the remaining hammer, the sound alarmingly loud in the dead quiet of the night. The highwayman flung his spent pistol to the ground, spun his horse round, and sped into the night, greatcoat flapping behind him.
George swallowed hard as her knees gave out and she sank to the ground. Mud flooded her skirts, soaking through the fabric until she was wet to the skin.
Merde.
Not only was the bitch a better shot than any woman had a right to be, but the bumbling peasants he’d hired had so fouled things up that she was now the only one of them armed.
Philippe flung his spent pistol to the ground and yanked hard on the reins, bringing his mount about. The nag swung its head towards his knee, teeth bared. Philippe kicked it in the face as hard as he could. It turned away, ears flattened to its skull, but it did as it was told.
God, how he hated riding. The manifold discomforts. Saddles that rubbed. Exposure to the elements. The stink of horse working its way into your clothes. Into your skin. And he hated this particular horse more than most, bony, ill-tempered beast that it was. Even its gaits were uncomfortable.
He’d spent a small fortune arranging this. And what had it gotten him?
Nothing.
At best? Two dead henchmen, each with fifty pounds in his pocket. At worst? Two wounded men who, while they didn’t know his name, did know that this had been no mere robbery.
A branch whipped across his face, cutting the skin. Philippe cursed and bent lower in the saddle, flailing at his mount with his crop.
What were the odds that either she or one of her legion of lovers wouldn’t put this together with her maid’s death and come to the correct conclusion?
It was all that damn dog’s
