Page 77

S everal days after the ball, Lora folded a missive describing another murder of a local laborer.

The details sent tremors through her, piercing her with regret.

Unable to sleep, she snuck out to the stables and saddled her mount.

Aided by a trickle of moonlight, she traversed the road to the village, shaking off the chill. Or was it a guilty conscience?

If not for a house full of guests and obligations, she might have been able to prevent Mr. Hobbs’s death.

If she had caught the bandits sooner, perhaps even the duke’s butler might still be alive.

She had been there, near the duke’s lush estate.

Upon hearing the shouts, she’d chosen not to enter the house and instead gave chase, fearing that she would be caught in a place where she was not supposed to be.

In the end, fear of being blamed for whatever tragedy had befallen the household had gripped her so cruelly that when she spotted the duke in the woods, she’d instantly frozen.

If only she hadn’t seen him . Perhaps then she might have caught the man in the orange neckerchief, and made a difference in the lives of so many others.

But she hadn’t. The fear of discovery had overshadowed her good sense, and that momentary pause had cost her the culprits responsible for the duke’s butler’s death.

Guilt-ridden, she reaffirmed her oath to catch the person responsible for all the nefarious goings on in Kingston. The dreadful events that had started with her family now extended to the village and called for drastic measures.

Time to put an end to this suffering.

She rode on, surrounded by nightly sounds that had become as ordinary as a cocking rooster waking the world.

Bats foraging under the forest canopy, clicking as they darted in and out of the trees; badgers snuffling in the undergrowth and scuttling along; nightjars, seldom seen but heard, their cries carrying hundreds of yards.

Legend said that the nocturnal birds were the spirits of unbaptized children, doomed to wander the night sky singing “Whip-poor-will.” Joining their chonk, chonk, chonk cacophony were eager owls, croaking frogs, and the trickling rush of a woodland spring or the crack of wood snapping with the strain.

A woman’s scream charged the air, bringing her to a halt.

Not ordinary.

She listened for the shrieking sound again. It could be a red fox or human; the two were hard to distinguish from the other.

There!

A cry louder than the first, and from something much larger. Prodding her horse into action, she raced down the London Road. Stealth and surprise, techniques mastered on hunts with her father and brother, were useless now. Speed was necessary.

Blood pounded between her ears, the cadence keeping time with horses’ hooves clomping over the packed earth. Voices—a man, two women—drifted through the woods. She slowed her mount to a walk and rounded a bend in the trees, easing back on the reins when she espied the developing scene before her.

Draw.

Retrieving an arrow from her quiver, she silently slid from the saddle to creep closer.

A carriage stood vacant in the middle of the road, the door wide open. Two unwilling souls labored for freedom alongside a dark figure who fought to control them. One woman lost her footing, her gown tangling about her feet. She tumbled to the ground with a yelp.

Obscenities filled the air. “I told ye to give me yer valuables and be quick about it.”

“We have nothing,” she cried as the blackguard grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her to her knees. “Run, Ruth!”

Ruth launched an attack instead. “Don’t ’urt my mistress!”

“I will do whatever I please, wench.” Menacing laughter sent chills up Lora’s spine as the blackguard turned, struck Ruth, and sent her careening to the ground.

Nock.

In a seamless transfer of energy, Lora placed the piece in the middle of her bowstring and stretched the serving, making her aim true so as not to hit the poor suffering woman in the man’s clutches.

“She has nothin’ of value to me,” the blackguard said, focusing on his captive. “Ye’re what I want.”

Loose.

Releasing a breath, she let her weapon fly and, moving with swift patience, she nocked another and inched closer.

The man’s reaction was swift as the arrow penetrated his thigh. He fell to the ground, cradling his leg. “Bloody hell!”

“Help us!” His captive scurried on her hands and knees to her traveling companion, sobbing. “Please, whoever you are, help us!”

Lora wasted no more time. She rushed to the woman’s side, brandishing her weapon and making it clear to the injured bandit she was not above sending another arrow through his rotten heart.

“Do not move,” she said, looking him over and searching for the telltale orange neckerchief that wasn’t there.

“I brought your arse to anchor once. The next time, it’ll be your skull. ”

“Don’t kill me. I meant no ’arm,” he spat. “I was just?—”

“Having a wee bit of sport?” she asked, trying to keep her anger in check.

“Aye, truer than not.” He groaned, blood oozing between his fingers. “I seen the carriage pass and thought I’d ’ave a bit of fun with ’em. No ’arm done, eh?”

“No harm done?” the hurt woman wailed. She glanced at Lora, her red-rimmed eyes full of fright and fury. “This . . . this?—”

“Bandit.” She opened the lower decks, intending her insults and barbs to belittle and bedevil the man with a hang-gallows look. “A belly-gut, bacon-faced bastard. Blast him!”

“Yes.” The injured woman struggled to her feet, favoring her side. “This blaggard chased our carriage, incapacitating our driver. Poor man, wherever he is now.”

“Where is he?” She kicked the wounded man, but he refused to answer.

The woman quickly exclaimed, “I do not know where our driver is. Perhaps?—”

“No,” she said, stopping her from continuing on. She aimed her arrow at her attacker’s most cherished parts. “Speak or bid your seed farewell.”

“No, no, no.” He raised his hand to ward off the liquidation of his worldly goods. “If it’s the driver yer after, I shot ’im.”

The bowstring clicked as she maximized her aim, summoning as much patience as she could muster.

“I don’t think I killed ’im.”

“If he is dead, he wouldn’t be the first, I wager.” She cast the woman a warning look when she ventured near to spit on the man, then gave him her full attention. “You are not from around here. How long have you been in Kingston?”

He glanced at his leg, then asked, “Are ye goin’ to finish me?”

“You’ll be a diet for worms on a dunghill if you don’t answer my question. And I will get an answer.” She placed her foot on his thigh, applying pressure to his wound. “Why are you here? Tell me!”

He shrieked like a pig. “To get . . . what’s mine.”

“Louder. One of your victims can’t hear.”

“To get . . . what’s mine!”

“And what?—”

“Please,” the gentlewoman said, moving to rouse her companion. “The sight of this man sickens me, and my maid needs our help.”

Lora stiffened, momentarily ashamed. “Get into the carriage,” she ordered, turning toward the women. “I shall take you to safety shortly. But there is something I must do first.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

While she was distracted, the thief swiftly rose, astonishing her with his speed, and rushed towards her. Instinctively, she let her arrow fly. It hit its target, impaling the man’s chest. He slumped to the ground, gurgling.

The two women screamed.

“Get Ruth into the carriage,” she ordered.

“You fool!” Dropping to her knees, she shook the highwayman none too gently. “I was going to let you live.”

He gulped. “It was ye or me.”

“Why are you terrorizing the area?” Tears of rage welled in the backs of Lora’s eyes as the futility of what she’d done hit her. He was her one and only chance to get the answers she sought. “Did you kill the duke’s man?”

“Wasn’t me. Was?—”

“Who?”

“It was—” He choked, the sound ominous in the night, the urgency nauseatingly real.

If she didn’t find out who the man in the orange neckerchief was, she feared she’d never learn the truth.

“Clyde.”

“Where is he? Where can I find him?”

“Smart one . . . ’e is.”

Blood oozing out of the man’s chest made her stomach churn. “And what about you? Why do this?”

Life waned from his eyes. “Blunt . . . to be earned?—”

“For what?” She shook him again hard when he appeared to drift into the murky abyss. “Tell me!”

“Debts . . . London . . . Easy pickens, ’e said.”

“Whose debts?”

The man’s chuckle sounded vacant. “Luck . . . out.”

“Where can I find Clyde?” she shrieked, becoming more desperate as the seconds wore on.

“He’ll find . . . ye.”

“He’ll find me?” She blinked. “How will I know him?”

“Orange . . . neck . . .”

The blood siphoned from her face. “Neck? What about an orange neck?” She shook him harder. “Tell me!”

“Argh!” he growled, slowly reviving. His agony latched onto the woman in her, but being close to finding Nicholas’s killer superseded everything else—including civility. “Penniless . . . promised.”

Sounds of the forest quieted as horses’ hooves thundered in the distance.

Time had run out.

With discovery imminent, she knelt down and hissed in the man’s ear. “If you live long enough, tell your master I’m coming for him.”

Standing, she turned to the carriage; her cloak sweeping around her.

She ran to her horse and brought him back to the conveyance, securing him to the boot, then climbed onto the box and took up the reins.

Snapping them and shouting, “Move on,” she raced off, putting as much distance between the coach and her pursuers as possible.

Several intense moments later, she took the carriage down the drive leading to one of her tenant’s properties.

There, she swiftly removed the brace of pistols at her hips, her bow and quiver, and tore off her cloak, setting them aside.

She picked up a hat the driver had left lying on the box seat and plonked it on her head.

From there, she continued on to Winterbourne’s stables, their arrival causing instant upheaval.

Judson, the stablemaster, marched out holding a lamp aloft and shouting orders before rushing to her aid. “My lady,” he said, recognizing her, “what the devil is goin’ on?”

She gathered her belongings and lowered herself to the ground. “I couldn’t sleep and went for a night ride.”

He gawked as she passed off her accoutrements to a waiting stableman. “In a hired carriage?”

“It’s a long story.”

“One worth ’earin’.” He drew closer. “If I’d known ye required a mount, I would ’ave sent one of the stable ’ands with ye. It isn’t safe to be out alone. Not after?—”

“We will talk about this later.” There was no time to go into the details of what had occurred, and Judson would only worry more if he knew.

She moved to the carriage doors and opened them, revealing the two frightened women huddled inside.

“A highwayman accosted these ladies and they need immediate attention.”

Acknowledgement transformed Judson’s face.

“Bring them to the main house and provide them with the best of care.”

“But ye’re guests.”

“These ladies are our guests. They just arrived late,” she said calmly.

“But there will be?—”

“It is nothing I cannot deal with,” she insisted.

“No!” the unnamed woman cried out, her wide-eyed stare piercing Lora’s heart. “This is all untoward. How do I know I can trust any of you?”

Judson spoke up for her. “My lady will not deal ye false.”

“But how did we get here? And where is?—”

“You are at Winterbourne, the Marquess of Putney’s estate,” Lora said, refusing to explain further.

“The Marquess of Putney?”

“Yes. The staff here will take good care of you. May I ask for your name?”

The woman hesitated, staring in disbelief, as if afraid to reveal her identity. “I am Wilhelmina Parr, and this is my maid, Ruth Finch.”

“Miss Parr. Miss Finch. I am Lora, the marquess’s daughter. I am sorry that we are meeting under these circumstances, but I am happy that you are alive. Please accept our hospitality, at least until my father’s doctor can assure us that you are not in any danger.”

“No,” the unnamed woman said. “I do not wish you to go to any trouble on my account. Ruth and I shall be comfortable anywhere it is warm and dry.”

“I will not hear of it.” Lora gestured for the two women to exit the carriage, feeling outrage over how the man on the road had mistreated them.

“The people of Kingston may be many things, but we are not heartless. Join us, I beg. Nay, I insist. Though I must warn you we are in the midst of a house party. Of course, I can arrange for your privacy.” She recognized the worried expression marring Miss Parr’s face.

She’d seen that look on countless others who’d suffered horrifying cruelty at the hands of bandits, and it filled Lora with misgivings.

“Rest assured, you will be safe here. And we will not expect you to mingle with our guests, at least not until you have recovered from your ordeal and wish it to be so.”

“Very well.” The bedraggled blonde beauty cried out when Judson attempted to guide her by the arm, making Lora recall the way they’d both been manhandled. Poor dears. “We accept,” Miss Parr said. “For Ruth’s sake.”

“Then consider it settled,” Lora said, celebrating this minor triumph.

What would have happened if she hadn’t arrived in time?

But she had and dared not ponder the alternative.

Too many others had suffered worse at the hands of these men.

These two ladies, in particular, were lucky, luckier than most. And now she knew more than she ever had about the man with the orange neckerchief.

Could it be that the moment for her to finally get revenge had come?