Page 1
Chapter
One
T he speed with which the carriage braked threw Benedict Deverell out of his seat, his long legs tangled in the folds of his dark greatcoat, landing him with a thump on the floor.
He clutched at the other chair, the velvet upholstery soft beneath his fingers, and hoisted himself up to the sounds of men shouting and his driver pleading for calm.
For a moment, he was unsure what was happening, or why they’d been stopped.
The air inside the carriage grew stuffy, thick with the smell of leather and dust, while the clatter of hooves on the road outside sent a shiver down his spine.
Perhaps they had been waylaid at the tollgate they needed to pay a fee at, or worse—a highwayman who wanted their worldly goods.
Not that he had much on hand, and that in itself could be a problem, since he was traveling to Wiltshire in his brother the marquess’s carriage.
If a highwayman did think to rob him, he would expect there would be some significant blunt on hand.
The marquess’s family crest—a rampant lion holding a shield—was emblazoned in gold on the door, a beacon to any thief with a mind for rich pickings.
The door to the carriage ripped open, and he looked at the man who had accosted them.
The fellow’s cravat was twisted, his coat threadbare, and a bristled jaw peeked out from beneath the red cloth tied over his mouth and nose.
His boots were cracked at the seams, and his hair stuck out in greasy tufts from beneath a battered cap.
The stench wafting off him—a sour mix of sweat, unwashed wool, and stale tobacco—was far from pleasing.
Benedict swallowed the nausea rising in his throat and waited to be told what to do. No doubt the fiend had plans for them all.
“Out,” he ordered, gesturing with his flintlock for Benedict to jump down and stand beside the carriage. He glanced past the would-be thief and noted his driver was already doing as the man bade them.
“Give me everything you have and be quick about it.”
His driver reached into his pocket and pulled out the purse of coins his brother had paid him with before they’d left London, and Benedict’s temper rose.
He lifted off the silver cross that hung about his neck on a simple black cord—a symbol of his faith, the weight of which felt heavier today than ever before—and reached into his pocket, pulling out the few meager coins he also carried.
But he feared it would not be enough to satisfy their bandit.
Between them, there would be barely ten pounds.
The masked man searched each purse of coins, glanced at the cross, and frowned.
“Is that it? That’s all you have on you?
” His attention shifted to the highly polished and modern traveling coach, with its intricate brass fittings and freshly painted wheels.
His scowl deepened. “That’s the Marquess of Whitmore’s carriage, and you barely have ten pounds here. What kind of fool do you take me for?”
His driver looked at him for explanation, and Benedict turned to the highwayman.
“Listen, sir, I’m a priest. My brother is the Marquess.
I’m merely on my way to my brother’s country estate to carry out a service Sunday next at the parish church of St. Michael’s in the village nearby.
I do not have the funds that my brother may travel with.
I’m sorry if this is not enough to satisfy you.
” A faint quaver laced his voice, the first crack in the mask of calm he wore as a man of faith.
“A priest, eh.” The smirk on the thief’s face sent a cold chill down Benedict’s spine. “A man of God. Tell me, do you not get bored reading scriptures and listening to people’s troubles? And let’s not forget—if you’re a Catholic priest, well, women are unavailable to your poor soul.”
Benedict ground his teeth, not needing anyone to remind him of that fact.
Not that he’d struggled so very much so far in his journey to take orders, but the thought of a life without companionship, without the warmth of a woman’s embrace, gnawed at him like a persistent ache.
It was something he seriously needed to think about before promising himself to the church.
He could, he supposed, always join the Church of England…where the rules on marriage were far more forgiving. But what would that say of his convictions?
“I’m sorry. That is all we have.” He gestured to the carriage. “Feel free to search the vehicle and our belongings if you like, but I assure you that is all you’ll find.”
“A shame,” the highwayman said, staring at them both as if they were nothing but horse dung beneath his worn boots.
“I suppose this will have to do. But then, I really ought to rid myself of anyone who may order a search of my whereabouts. You understand,” the thief said.
“My horse is old and will take some time for me to get many miles from here—far slower than I imagine you could get men out to search for me. That leaves me with only one choice.”
Benedict moved to stand in front of the driver, his heart hammering against his ribs like a drum, and the faint scent of damp earth and horse sweat filling his nose.
His stomach churned at the man’s train of thought.
“Listen, we shall not say a word. Just leave us be, with what you have taken today, and we shall be on our way. We want no one to be hurt, nor is it necessary. I promise you, and give you my word.”
The bandit threw back his head and laughed. “And that, coming from you, is a high promise indeed. Almost smug, is it not?”
“We want no harm, sir,” his driver said. “Please, I have a family…”
The bandit sighed and glanced to the side a minute, and without thought, Benedict threw himself at him.
They tumbled to the ground and rolled several times.
Benedict was able to wrestle the gun from the man and threw it aside, his breath ragged and chest heaving with exertion, before a punch to his jaw rattled him for several heartbeats.
He rolled away, attempting to crawl to where the gun had landed. He yelled for his driver, but could not see where he had disappeared to. They wrestled toward the gun, and Benedict grunted as several punches to his kidneys almost stopped him short.
“Do not even think about it,” the bandit growled, somehow gaining his feet and kicking him in the stomach.
Benedict rolled, clutching his stomach, before a shot rang out, stilling his heart and silencing the outdoors.
The scent of gunpowder hung thick in the air, sharp and metallic.
The sound of his heartbeat sounded loud in his ears, before warmth started to flow down his leg. Searing pain followed, and he sat up and clutched at his thigh as blood oozed through his buckskin breeches onto the ground, rendering the soil red.
The sound of fading hoofbeats told him the bandit had fled, galloping into the nearby copse of trees and out of sight.
His driver was beside him in a moment, ripping his cravat off from around his throat and tying it high on his thigh.
A thumping pain shot through his leg, and he called out an expletive that he ought not before the world before him started to spin.
“Lord Benedict, all will be well. There is a grand home nearby. Come, help me get you into the carriage, and I’ll ensure you’re looked after. Please, my lord, do not give up just yet.”
His driver’s plea shot adrenaline through his blood, and with his driver’s help, he stood and shuffled over to the vehicle. He sat on the floor of the carriage and slid his way into the vehicle, anything further was impossible—his limbs felt heavy, and his head spun. He could do no more.
“That’s it, my lord. You’ll be put to rights soon enough.”
Benedict lay on the floor of the carriage and heard the door slam closed. He clutched at his leg, the pain searing and blinding him to any other thought.
He’d been shot.
The blackguard had shot him without a second thought.
Bastard.
He cringed at his unkindly thought, the weight of his faith pressing on his chest, reminding him that forgiveness should be his path, before waking several minutes later to the carriage barreling down a bumpy, graveled road.
He hoped his driver knew where he was going and where help could be sourced.
The amount of blood pumping out onto the carriage floor was alarming and could well mean he’d lose his life before they arrived.
He rolled and groaned as the carriage tore around a corner. Great oaks—stately and ancient—lined whatever road they now traveled. Mayhap they were on the nearby estate’s main entrance. Oaks usually lined their grand drives, did they not? This one seemed no different.
“Almost there, my lord. Just a few more minutes,” his driver yelled before the carriage rolled to a hasty stop.
More hollering ensued, men’s voices, low and gruff, mingled with the higher tones of women calling for aid.
Benedict only half-listened, unfamiliar voices floated through his mind, and yet he could not form the strength to open his eyes to see who had come to assist him.
He was jostled, pulled from the vehicle, and then shadows passed over his eyes. Was he inside now? He fought the tiredness, needing to tell them thank you for their help. Apologize for being troublesome when he’d never intended for any of this to happen.
They were good people, whoever they were.
“There is a spare room upstairs. Henry, and Thomas, help carry him and quickly,” a sweet, feminine voice ordered, its soft, lilting tone calm yet commanding, a hint of aristocratic breeding in every syllable. An angel, he had little doubt. Maybe he’d died and was already in heaven.
“Send for the doctor and have Cook prepare hot water to be brought up and maids to carry up towels,” the angelic voice continued.
“He’s been shot, my lady. A highwayman. Perhaps best tell your husband that there are criminals lurking nearby.”
“I shall tell my brother-in-law, the duke, of course,” the woman said. “But first, we must save this man.”