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S amantha froze. Hazel’s pistol was pointed directly at her chest. Wide, watery eyes, brimming with fierce determination, met hers. She swallowed, managed a breath even as Hazel’s hand started to shake.

“It’s all right,” Samantha told her, not yet daring to move. “You’re safe.”

A couple of seconds to let that sink in, then a heavy sigh as Hazel fell backward with a loud groan. Samantha dropped to her knees beside her, removed the pistol from her hand, and proceeded to study Hazel’s wound. Blood was quickly spreading outward, seeping through Hazel’s buckskin breeches.

“It’s not so bad,” Samantha lied, her voice raw. “You’ll be fine.”

“We need to get her inside.” Adrian’s hand on Samantha’s shoulder reminded her that she wasn’t alone. He was there to help.

She caught Hazel’s hand, gave it a hasty squeeze to reassure her, and allowed it to slip from her grasp as Adrian picked Hazel up. Samantha followed them into the house, silently cursing their new predicament as she stepped over Wilkes’s and Blade’s lifeless bodies. They’d deal with them later.

For now, however…

Were there even medical supplies available here? She herself had only the bare minimum with her – a small pouch containing two cotton swabs, a needle and thread, pincers, and a pair of scissors.

It might not suffice if the lead shot was deeply imbedded. In which case they’d have to find a physician.

Ignoring Snipes’s whimpers as he crawled across the floor, his broken wrist turned at an unnatural angle, Samantha followed Adrian into the parlor and cleared the table so he could put Hazel down. “All I have is this.” She offered him her small pouch of tools. “At least there’s alcohol with which we can clean the wound. I’ll see if I can find anything else for us to use.”

“Do that and I’ll assess the damage,” Adrian muttered. He was already pulling off Hazel’s boots. She whimpered in response, her eyes squeezing shut as he forced her to move her leg, to flex raw flesh and damaged muscle.

As tempted as she was to stay by Hazel’s side, Samantha strode from the room while doing her best not to think of the mess they’d created. There would be time for that as soon as she was satisfied her foster-sister would not end up dead.

She’d been upstairs with Adrian, in the room where they’d spent the night, when the shots had interrupted their conversation. Since arriving here yesterday, they’d gathered more information about the goings on in the house and had since tried to figure out how to proceed.

Their hosts were holding more than one person captive, judging from the amount of food and drink the men delivered to the two locked rooms. Occasional murmurs from within supported this theory. Add to that the fact that they waited for a specific ship to arrive, and it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

Whomever the men had captured, they would be sold and shipped off to only God knew where. And while Samantha wasn’t keen on giving up her and Adrian’s chance of escape, she couldn’t make herself turn a blind eye to that sort of thing. Neither could he. But without knowing the level of skill they were up against they’d not been able to land on a solid plan.

What they did know was that all four men were armed and prepared to protect their source of income. She doubted they’d have had any qualms about killing her or Adrian if either of them posed a threat.

So the only chance had been to separate their opponents and take them out one by one. Unfortunately, this kind of opportunity had not arisen.

Until Hazel showed up. Wilkes had stepped outside to face her. The shots that followed had put the other men on alert, their focus on what was occurring outside. They’d been confused just long enough for Samantha and Adrian to take advantage.

Snipes, she saw, was almost at the front door. Wheezing, he tried pushing up onto his knees, only to collapse with a yelp when Samantha kicked his good arm out from under him. She grabbed the back of his jacket collar and dragged him away from the door before kicking it shut, then divested him of the blade he carried at his waist.

“Stay,” she ordered, already taking the steps two at a time and with so much haste she barely managed to dodge the projectile that flew her way.

Glass exploded around her, the shattering sound causing Adrian to call out toward her.

“I’m all right,” she assured him.

Righting herself, she spotted Grant, who’d managed to prop himself against the wall at the top of the stairs. Red-faced with fury, teeth bared in spite of the pain he must surely be in on account of the gash she’d delivered to the left side of his torso, he glared at her as she climbed the last steps to where he sat.

“You deserve to have your throat slit,” he snarled. “Slowly.”

She angled her head, not entirely sure the speed with which the act he described was carried out would make much difference. “There are probably those who would say the same about you. Your captives, for instance.”

The fact that he didn’t comment only confirmed she and Adrian had been correct. Another problem that would have to wait. At present, she could not afford wasting time on searching for keys to the rooms where the hostages were kept. Or on trying to break the doors open.

So she stepped past Grant, leaving him where he sat, and proceeded to search the rooms where the men had been keeping their things. Her hope was to find other useful supplies amidst their belongings. Only to come up short.

She returned to the parlor empty-handed, her heart slamming against her breast when she saw Hazel’s wound. Adrian had cut the left leg of her breeches from cuff to hip and peeled it back to reveal an unsightly mess of shredded tissue and blood.

Groaning, Hazel gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles straining with the effort. Adrian caught Samantha’s gaze, the gravity she found there echoing what she already knew. “We’ve got to remove the shot and clean the wound if we’re to save her leg. Even then, I cannot promise that she will regain complete use of it.”

“As long as she lives,” Samantha told him, “That’s all that matters.”

“I…” He broke eye contact then, a frown creasing his brow. “I’m not a skilled surgeon.”

“Neither am I, but we will do the best we can.” She firmed her voice. “Won’t we?”

“Without question.” He turned to the chairs upon which he’d placed a bottle of brandy and laid out the small selection of tools Samantha had provided. “Give her this to bite down on.”

Samantha took the leather-bound notebook he pulled from his pocket and fought back against the painful knot in her throat. “Thank you.”

A nod was his only response as he gave his attention back to the tools. Samantha placed her palm against Hazel’s head, her thumb gently stroking over her hair. “We need to get to work on your leg so you can start healing. It will hurt.” She recalled the agony of having lead shot removed from her own shoulder recently. “But it’s better than what you might face if we choose to wait.”

“I’m ready,” Hazel murmured, her voice a thin thread of sound.

“Let’s give her a swig from that bottle first,” Samantha suggested.

A few sips were all Hazel could manage. Samantha prayed it would be enough to help her through the ensuing ordeal as she placed the notebook between Hazel’s teeth.

Adrian picked up the pincers, took a deep breath, and began.

* * *

Concern weighed on the gentleman’s mind. He’d gone to the Old Bailey the previous morning to watch Croft hang, furious with himself for not being able to stop the proceedings. Disheartened by how easily the abuse of power had prevailed.

So when news of Croft’s escape had reached him, he’d been overcome by relief. A short-lived reaction snuffed out when he’d realized there was a good chance Croft would probably end up dead anyway. With a lucrative bounty placed on his head and Bow Street actively trying to find him, he was unlikely to get away.

Even if he did, he’d still be gone. Unable to carry out the work only he could accomplish. The effort made to ensure his place within the criminal underworld – the threat he posed to those who dared oppose him – would have been for nothing.

A truth that was near impossible to accept even though the gentleman knew he might have to. For he could see no easy way for Croft to return to London. Or for him to resume his position as King of Portman Square.

A bloody miracle would be required for that to happen.

A ghost of a chance. However unfortunate that might be.

* * *

Peter Kendrick pulled hard on the reins at the sound of shots fired. His horse skidded slightly on the dirt road as it drew to a halt. He turned in his saddle, knees pressed against muscled flanks, one fisted hand holding the reins, keeping them short as he looked back in the direction from which he and Jackson had come.

“Did you hear that?” The shots had been distant but clear.

Jackson, who’d not been as quick to stop as Peter, trotted toward him. “It could merely be someone out hunting.”

There was always that possibility, Peter supposed. Especially given the vast amount of land that stretched in either direction. The chance of their finding the Crofts in this way was slim. Or would have been, had Peter not known they were in the right area.

Going door to door had miraculously paid off.

Not right away. The first few houses had yielded no results. But then they’d arrived at Romleigh Park where they’d been informed of a groundkeeper’s interaction with five individuals yesterday morning. Two had matched the description of Mr. and Mrs. Croft.

With their last known location being close to the shore, Peter’s theory that they were planning to get out of the country seemed increasingly likely. Consequently, he’d inquired after the nearest town where a seagoing vessel might be procured and was told to try asking after the fugitives in Dudridge.

He and Jackson would be there in another two to three miles. After which Pagham itself would only be five miles away. But what if the Croft’s had managed to find transport elsewhere?

Jaw clenched, he stared in the direction they’d been heading while warring with his moral compass. Keep going and increase their chance of saving Molly Atkins or help Jackson do as he had been ordered to do by his superior?

Peter cursed beneath his breath. “Avoiding villages and towns would be the wise thing for the Crofts to do. So would staying off the main road.”

“You think they might have gone down to the beach in the hope of finding a boat that’s been dragged onto land?”

“Possibly.” Peter tightened his grip on the reins “There were two shots, right? Fired in quick succession? That squares more with an altercation than with a hunting party. In which case, we ought to take a look either way, make sure no one was killed.”

Jackson nodded his agreement. With the click of his tongue, he turned his horse around and began heading back the way they’d come. Peter brought his own horse up alongside Jackson’s and hoped his decision to prioritize finding the Crofts would not waste too much precious time.

“Let’s take the first road leading down to the beach,” Jackson suggested. “If there’s any indication of activity down there, we’ll spot it soon enough.”

Peter agreed and was soon leading the way onto a dirt road. It was barely wide enough to allow for a wagon or carriage to pass between the shrubs and trees that grew on either side and was largely overgrown in various places. At one point, it seemed to disappear altogether because of the wild grass that had found room to grow. But when they continued a few more paces, the path reappeared and soon after that, a band of blue emerged upon the horizon just beyond the dunes hunched over the ground.

“I doubt we’ll find what we’re looking for here,” Jackson remarked, his attention on the remains of what had once been a humble shack. Only parts of the floor remained along with some broken weather boarding, held in place by a wooden post.

It looked like the place had been scavenged for kindling.

Peter slid his gaze eastward, briefly skimming the water and the vessels anchored there. Perhaps the Crofts were already aboard one of them. He could only hope that wasn’t the case as he squinted against the incoming sea-breeze and sunshine.

“Is that a house?” He pointed toward a structure that stood some distance away and a bit farther inland.

“Depends on how you classify ‘house’. Looks fairly overgrown from here.”

“Even so, it might have provided shelter. Transportation, too, if there’s a boat on the property. Plus, the location could match the spot from which the shots were fired.”

“We’d best take a closer look then,” Jackson suggested.

Peter nodded. “Keep your pistol at the ready. We’ve no idea what kind of situation we’re riding into.”

A worse one than what Peter imagined, he realized when they eventually came around the house’s corner and he got his first view of the front door. Two bodies were sprawled there belonging to men he’d not seen before.

“Maybe they killed each other,” Jackson murmured.

Careful to keep his wits about him, Peter scanned the surroundings. Two parked carriages. Four horses secured beneath a shelter. “Only one was shot. The other had his throat slit.”

Which meant whoever had done this had not yet fled, or they would most likely have taken the horses.

“Are you sayi—”

“Hush.” Peter gave Jackson a commanding look, then slid from his saddle and secured his horse to a tree. Jackson did the same and Peter gestured for him to stay at his back as they moved toward the house.

Whoever owned this place, they’d not put much effort into its upkeep. At a minimum, it required a good coat of paint and fixing the gate. Cutting back some of the brush would further improve its appearance.

Keeping his pace light and slow, Peter moved toward the door, stepping around the larger of the two men who lay there, then leaning across the skinnier one in order to test the handle. Locked. He shot a look toward Jackson and jerked his head to the left. They’d try going around, attempt to look through the windows – gather more information – and maybe find another way in.

If they entered this way, their presence would be announced, and they’d lose the advantage.

Keeping close to the wall, their pistols at the ready, they edged their way forward along one side of the building. A single window afforded Peter a look at an empty room, beyond which he was able to make out the foyer. Legs stretched out across the floor gave evidence of an additional victim.

His heart thudded against his chest. No sign of Mr. or Mrs. Croft. Or anyone else for that matter.

Swallowing, he waved Jackson onward, circling around the corner toward the back. His lips twitched when he spotted the back entrance, satisfaction sliding into place when he tried the handle and it turned.

Pulse leaping, he set one finger to his lips, reminding Jackson to keep his mouth shut. There was no telling who they’d encounter inside. Getting their bearings before their presence was discovered would only benefit them.

He prayed no one would be there to greet them, then pulled the door open and took a swift look inside what appeared to be a small pantry. He released a heavy breath at finding it empty and stepped over the threshold. Jackson followed at his back and together they crossed the floor, moving farther into the house.

Loud groans accompanied their every move, masking the sound of their footfalls against creaking floorboards. They were the pained sounds one might expect from someone who’d been severely wounded. Or from a victim undergoing some form of torture.

Stomach clenched, Peter stepped into the hallway that led past the stairs and toward the foyer. His grip on his pistol tightened, fingers tensing to make sure they would be ready to act when needed.

The man whose legs he’d seen through the window came into full view. His head lolled to one side. Blood dripped from his nose and his hand was twisted backward, clearly broken. But his chest rose and fell with unsteady movements and since he appeared to be unarmed, Peter chose to dismiss him for the moment.

Instead, he turned toward the sound of the groans and instantly froze when he saw the two people standing over a table on which a third person was lying. Mr. and Mrs. Croft, their focus on the person they either attempted to help or force information out of.

Peter signaled for Jackson to take his position on the right side of the doorway while Peter moved to the left. Honestly, he couldn’t believe his damn luck.

He gave himself a second in which to steady his breath, calm the agitation that urged him to move with haste, and walked slowly into the room, pistol raised.

“Step away from the table.” His voice was cool. Even. “And show me your hands.”