Page 6 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous (Matchmaking Mischief Makers #2)
“W here’s the little varmint? Did you see where he went?”
Less than an hour later, Caroline held her breath in the suffocating darkness, sweating in the wooden trunk that had become both her refuge and her prison the moment she realized the coachman had discovered he had a stowaway.
The rough wood pressed against her spine, and the musty smell of old leather and travel dust filled her nostrils.
“Have you looked there? In the trunk?”
She heard their heavy tread as they approached, both of them scrambling from the box up front where the coachman had been about to whip the horses into movement, to the rear where their passengers’ luggage was stored. Their boots rang ominously against the wooden footboard.
The carriage was well sprung, and it swayed gently with their movement. No doubt Venetia was ensconced within the silk-lined interior, quailing with dread and wondering what was happening above her head—wondering if the strange sounds meant rescue or merely fresh disaster.
Wondering if she should flee if Caroline failed in the defiant act of bravery she’d so confidently assured her friend would save her from the fate that poor Venetia railed so desperately against.
Caroline hoped with every fiber of her being that she would.
She hoped Venetia would see that all was lost and simply throw open the carriage door and flee through the muddy streets of this little village where they’d stopped to change horses.
If she could reach the woods beyond, she might find sanctuary until Caroline could find her.
Surely Venetia would know it was her best—perhaps her only—means of escape, and that Caroline would move heaven and earth to find her as soon as she could.
To remain within the carriage would mean all was completely lost. Her future would no longer be hers to determine.
Trying desperately to steady her ragged breathing, Caroline pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle any sound. It was a terrible mistake. She gagged on her own knuckles, gasped for air, and—obviously hearing the telltale noise—the men stilled like hunting hounds catching a scent.
She heard a low, menacing chuckle and fully expected the lid to be thrown open and her disguise exposed to these rough men who smelled of ale and cruelty.
Thank the Lord she was dressed as a stable boy.
Who knew what they’d do to a defenseless young woman discovered in such compromising circumstances?
Like poor Venetia, who was just as defenseless and being taken advantage of this very moment in a deplorable manner that was completely condoned by society and orchestrated by her evil aunt.
But the lid wasn’t thrown open. Instead, she heard the ominous sounds of squeaking leather and straining metal as they adjusted the straps that bound her wooden prison to the carriage. Confusion gave way to horror as understanding dawned.
“That’ll teach ’im,” came the coachman’s gravelly voice, thick with malicious satisfaction. “Now, let’s whip up these horses and we’ll do a round of the village square, then pick up the poor old box that were set loose wiv all the commotion, eh? See what’s left of our little spy.”
Caroline’s blood turned to ice water in her veins.
The coachman had no intention of giving the “stowaway stable lad” a reprieve.
He intended to dash her bones onto the cobblestones so he could have the pleasure of dragging her broken body out before horsewhipping whatever remained.
These were not merely rough men—they were sadists who would take genuine pleasure in her suffering.
“Run, Venetia!” she cried out silently, willing desperately to hear the sound of the carriage door opening, but all remained ominously silent below until the lurching forward of the carriage and the sickening shift of her wooden box indicated that the moment for escape had been lost.
Hers included, although perhaps if she could force the box to tumble before the carriage gained dangerous speed, she’d have a better chance of survival.
Twisting her cramped body within the confined space, making short, jerky movements that set her bruised ribs screaming, she tried to rock the trunk toward the edge of its precarious perch.
But it was nearly impossible. Despite the coachman’s intention to lose the box over the side, the straps held firm, and the box was now shifting perilously from side to side with each turn of the wheels.
The best she could hope for now was for the straps to finally loosen, and a soft landing in mud once they’d left the village and cleared the murderous hard cobblestones.
And now, here it was—the moment of truth.
She sensed the weightlessness more by the sudden absence of the carriage’s rumbling vibration than by any physical sensation. Her stomach dropped as gravity claimed her, and she tensed every muscle for the impact that would either save or destroy her.
She could imagine the morbid glee of her tormentors, two men reeking of beer and casual violence who clearly enjoyed their cruel sport. Bullies both, but ever so obsequious when Lord Windermere had given them their instructions. How different men could be when they thought themselves unobserved.
But now she was free of them all—if she could survive what came next.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs and sent stars exploding behind her closed eyelids. But miraculously, she hadn’t broken her neck. She’d been badly jolted, every bone in her body singing with pain, but thank goodness for soft young bones and the mercy of muddy ground.
And for the fact she was wearing breeches and a jacket, her hair still bound securely inside the old cap.
At least she still had that protection—the disguise that might yet save her life.
For if she had any hope of surviving, much less saving Venetia, she could not risk being exposed as a woman to any stranger who might happen upon her.
“Whoa there! Stop!”
Caroline, who had been about to emerge from the splintered remains of the box, now kept herself huddled in the wreckage and prayed fervently that the newcomer’s sharp command related to something—anything—other than her predicament.
She forced herself to remain hidden, scarcely daring to breathe, waiting until all was silent and the coast was clear before she dared venture out.
She was winded and shaken, her entire body a symphony of aches and pains, but she didn’t think she’d suffered any permanent damage.
She just needed to extract herself from this predicament before Venetia’s sadistic coachman completed his circuit of the village square and returned to collect his victim for a proper horsewhipping.
“Barnaby! What do we have here?”
Caroline heard the distinctive sound of a gentleman’s boot against splintered wood, followed by the jingle of a horse’s bridle.
She could also detect the approaching sound of wheels on the road—another carriage, perhaps, though the cultured tones of the speaker suggested he was either mounted or traveling on foot, unlikely though that seemed given his obvious breeding.
Yes, the voice was educated, refined. Surely a gentleman would be more merciful than common ruffians?
Three heartbeats. Two. One…
With a burst of desperate energy borne of pure survival instinct, Caroline launched herself from the wreckage, scrambled upright on unsteady legs, and took off across the muddy field like a hare bolting from hounds.
She expected whoever had discovered the box would simply let her go. What possible interest could a gentleman have in pursuing a bedraggled street urchin, for that was surely how she appeared in the darkness?
But she heard the commanding shout following her through the night air: “Get the little rascal!”
There was some good-natured laughter from his companion.
So there were two of them, and they seemed to be treating this as sport rather than serious pursuit.
Caroline’s heart lifted slightly. If they were simply wealthy young men seeking amusement in this dull rural hamlet, they might be content to chase her briefly before losing interest.
That hope sustained her as she struck out determinedly across the plowed fields, her boots squelching in the soft earth.
If they were drunk or merely playing at pursuit, they’d not catch her.
They’d not be inclined to muddy their expensive boots, much less their fancy pantaloons, she thought with growing confidence—perhaps too much confidence, for it made her careless, slowing her desperate stride just enough to prove fatal.
The next moment, she was sent flying by a tackle from one of the men, landing face-down in the cold mud with enough force to drive every bit of air from her lungs.
Before she could recover, rough hands hauled her upright, and her wrists were pinioned behind her back with unnecessary force before she was marched back to where her captor’s companion lounged with deceptive casualness against his horse.
“Boy in a box!” her attacker chuckled. “What shall we do with our mysterious foundling?”
“Let him go, naturally.” The voice of the other carried an edge of impatience, as if this entire episode was an unwelcome distraction. “Come, Barnaby. We’re late as it is.”
“Let him go? He’s obviously up to no good, Ashworth. Boys don’t hide in boxes unless they’re running from something—or someone.”
Caroline’s heart nearly stopped. Barnaby?…And Henry?
“How do we know that?” The gentleman who wasn’t Barnaby—though surely he wasn’t her Henry, either—seemed more interested in contemplating the moon than becoming involved in her predicament, for his face was turned skyward, revealing only a shadowed silhouette of classical features above a pristine white cravat.
“He might have been stuffed in that box by someone else entirely—someone attempting to hide their own crime.”