Page 18

CHAPTER 17

T he gentle patter of hastening footsteps and the low murmur of voices followed Jasper back into the parlour, where Miss Huntsbury awaited him. Guilt thickened his throat, and he tugged at the fabric of his curst tight collar.

Miss Huntsbury stood as he neared. “Has your business concluded?”

He nodded. “Lady Cartwright’s body has been removed, and the temporary staff are preparing for the inevitable fracas with Francis.”

“Good. We haven’t a moment to lose; we must return to Bow Street and summon the others. Lord knows what mischief in which Mr. Sinclair might find himself if we do not hurry.”

“Your Grace,” a footman—Sebastian—said from the door, his cheeks flushed and his gaze concerned. “I beg your pardon for the interruption, but Harris thought you would want to see this.”

Jasper accepted the proffered slip of vellum and scanned it. A low curse fell from his lips.

“There were more just like it among Lady Cartwright’s things, according to her staff, Your Grace,” the young man continued.

“That’s fine, Sebastian. Thank you for this.”

The lad bowed deeply and left on quiet feet as Jasper handed Miss Huntsbury the note.

She gasped softly. “This is a letter from?—”

“From Francis, yes.” Jasper turned around, his hands fisted on his hips and his pulse roaring in his ears. “He had instructed her to burn the missive after reading, but clearly she held some sort of attachment to the bastard.” He paced to the window. “But why kill her?”

Miss Huntsbury shook her head and pursed her lips. “Perhaps she had served her purpose and was no longer useful. And what better way to be rid of someone with whom he’d shared secrets than to create a problem for you , Your Grace?”

Despite the awful circumstances, a small amount of relief loosened the knot in his chest. His shoulders fell, and the stiffness in his back eased. Her death was not directly his fault, then; she had formed an attachment to—and had likely been aiding—his cousin, and the hateful man had murdered her because he was done with her.

That knowledge, while immensely freeing, did not ease his responsibility. Francis remained a very real threat.

“Come.” Jasper offered Miss Huntsbury his arm. “To Bow Street.”

* * *

For the briefest of moments, shock, fear, and an aching pain froze Maria in place. Somewhere, a horse whinnied and snorted, breaking her from the moment.

Damnation.

She hadn’t the time to dither about whether or not the man had caused the accident; she must leave. Quickly. Voices rose up without, men shouting and cursing. Pulse racing, Maria pressed the latch of the door and shoved it open with a creak . The voices grew louder, and cold dread spread to her limbs.

Francis would not get her; she wouldn’t let him.

She grimaced, and cursed the tremble in her fingers as she stowed the parcel in her satchel. With stiff movements and her heart all but entirely in her throat, Maria hefted herself out of the equipage, straightening her coat and cravat.

The sky was filled with rolling clouds that seemed to darken with the repeated threat of rain, and she hastily retrieved her fallen hat from within the inoperative hack. A shiver travelled down her spine.

With one scan of her gaze, it was clear what had happened to the hack: one of the wheels had broken in half, leaving the entire thing nearly on its side. She knew better than to assume that Francis would have been able to impair her hack, but he could certainly have run them off the road.

Her stomach squeezed and her breath caught as she eyed the milling crowd. The driver and several other men were shouting at each other and gesturing wildly, but she saw no sign of Francis. Maria hadn’t the time to waste solving the small mystery or attempting to engage in discussion with her driver; she must make haste.

One of the carriage horses snuffed as she neared, and she muttered soft nonsense to it in an attempt to calm it. The poor things had been through a small trauma and were not trained to run with a rider on their back, but Maria was desperate.

With sure—if slightly trembling—movements, she unfastened one hesitant horse from its moorings. “Sorry, dearest,” she cooed. Her voice, while soothing for the animal, was heavy with trepidation. “I’m going to ride you today. I promise to give you as many apples as you desire once we’re through.”

Reaching inside her inner coat pocket, she withdrew several pound notes and put the outrageous sum on the driver’s seat.

More shouts rose up around her, and she chanced a glance over her shoulder. Then, she spotted him. Walking a mount through the growing crowd of spectators was Francis, his eyes narrowed menacingly and a smirk of satisfaction on his lips.

Her heart hiccoughed.

“That man is Francis Sinclair!” Maria shouted, pointing. “The man who escaped his hanging!”

Alarm spread briefly over Francis’ features as the crowd around them attempted to reach his horse’s reins.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Maria put a boot upon the edge of the broken hack, and hefted herself upon the horse, awkwardly juggling her satchel and the overly-long reins. The beast sidestepped and shook its head, rejecting her presence on its bared back. But she held firm, absurdly grateful that she still wore her men’s suit of clothes.

The cacophony grew ever louder, and her mount’s eyes grew wide before she nudged it with her legs. They burst into a run, with the driver shouting behind them, and she narrowly secured her satchel upon her lap before it slid off.

Crack! Something whizzed past her ear, and with tumult in her chest, she realized that someone had shot at her. She was in the Strand, for heaven’s sake! Anyone could be injured by a wide shot.

Pressing her hat more firmly on her head, she manoeuvred the struggling mare down the thoroughfare, around carts, carriages, horses, and people, and into Covent Garden. They were close to Bow Street, but not anywhere she could easily lose a pursuer.

With her pulse speeding and her breath coming fast between numb lips, she hooked her satchel’s handle over her wrist and flicked the reins, urging the mare faster. The mare’s eyes were wild, the beast clearly unused to having someone on her back—most particularly bared. Maria, however, would do what she must.

She desperately attempted to avoid passers-by while guiding her horse over the slippery cobblestones, her ears filled with the sounds of people shouting, her panting breaths, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. She rounded a corner onto a narrow street, less populated than the one she’d left, and pushed her mount faster.

Crack!

A small section of the stonework on a nearby building exploded with the force of the ball hitting it, dust falling to the ground.

“Shit,” she breathed.

Sweat beaded beneath the brim of her hat, dampened the fabric along her spine, and between her breasts.

Crack!

Dust flew at her from the other side of the narrow street, and a woman screamed in fear as Maria rode past.

How many pistols did the man have? He could not possibly be loading them while on horseback.

The street let out onto another thoroughfare, and she turned toward Bow Street. She couldn’t lead him to the offices, but perhaps she could lose him along the way. She gave the mare a nudge and glanced over her shoulder just as Francis burst from the narrow street and spotted her.

He was not far, but it was possible to lose him; she would simply have to take the risk of dismounting. It was a matter of timing, of awaiting the perfect moment when he was out of sight. She couldn’t hide from him forever. If she but had time to gather any weaponry aside from her small dagger, she would be grateful.

Her wrist burned with the bouncing weight of her satchel, and she shifted it awkwardly on her lap.

Crack!

That was four pistols. Clearly the man was well armed.

More screams rent the air, and Maria made a quick decision. She tightened her legs’ aching grip around the mare’s girth and led her down a side street. The buildings blocked the dim light shining through the clouds, and there were several vendors with carts selling their wares. Perfect .

With awkward, painful movements, Maria drew to a stop and slid from the mare’s back, landing on the uneven cobbles with a hard clunk of her booted heels. She clapped the horse on the flank, sending it darting between the vendors down the street, while Maria crouched behind a barrel and a vendor’s cart. The man whose space she’d invaded was fortunately too distracted by Francis’ entrance onto the street to give notice to her.

Hoof-beats drew nearer, and Maria withdrew the dagger from her boot, her heart clambering wildly in her chest. Would Francis notice that her horse had no rider? Would he see her? The cold fingers of dread prickled over her skin, creating an icy film of sweat between her palm and the handle of her dagger. She clutched it tighter.

Clop-clop, clop-clop, clop-clop .

“Hyaa!” Francis’ growled demand came from just steps away, before he pushed his horse into a run.

Soon, the sound of his galloping had faded away, and she sheathed her dagger once more.

“Wot ye be doin’ be’ind my cart, lad?” the vendor asked indignantly.

Maria cleared her throat and affected a lower voice. “I beg your pardon, sir.” She withdrew some coins from deep within her inner pocket and handed them to the man as she stood. “I had a need to not be seen just then. I’ll be on my way.”

The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coins, and he doffed his hat. “Thank’e kindly, sirrah.”

Biting back a groan, she hefted her satchel and started the short walk toward Bow Street.

* * *

Gone . The bitch had disappeared, and Francis was furious. He gripped the handle of his tankard tighter, careful not to slosh any of his ale, while the whore on his lap licked at the rim of his ear.

He’d been a fool to come here, but it was the first place that he’d thought of in which to fuck through his anger. These women cared naught about his rough handling of them, and he was in need of it. Once he had his desires sated, he would return for her .

The woman was far too easy to ruin, if he so chose. He merely had to reveal her secrets to the wagging tongues of the haut ton , and they would destroy her. But Francis didn’t want her merely destroyed. No, he wanted so much more than that.

The wench on his lap nipped at his neck, and he silently cursed her for distracting him from his tumultuous thoughts. She’d have her turn, damn it.

While he was pleased that Maria sodding Roberts—dressed as a man, for Christ’s sake—had been frightened enough to flee him in the street, she hadn’t been nearly fearful enough. He wanted more. Needed more.