Page 42 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

42

As soon as we left the road, the temperature dropped into a bone-aching chill, and the rich odor of damp earth, distant smoke, and leaf decay filled my lungs. The smell of October.

Ten or so yards beyond the roadside, the low grassy undergrowth shifted into a thick maze of trees. Mainly ash mottled by lichen, interspersed with hazel and oak. A good canopy of leaves still clung to their branches, although the forest floor was carpeted with the autumn drop. Very little moonlight penetrated the branches above us, but I could just make out the trodden pathway of our quarry through the scrub and spiky gorse. No sounds of human or horse progress, though. Mulholland was some distance ahead.

“Do we have a plan, my lady?” Weatherly asked beside me.

I was struggling to free the hem of my riding habit from a sharp, pointed branch that had fallen among the scrub and leaves. A yank liberated the wool and linen, sending the branch shivering back in a thudding, cracking release. “We follow them—as quietly as possible,” I said dryly, “and stop them from killing Lord Evan and Mr. Kent until Captain Morland comes.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Any idea how?”

“None whatsoever,” I said. “At least, not yet.”

He pulled a branch back for me to duck under. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Please do,” I said, rising from my bend in a crackle of leaves and crunch of old seed casings. Lud, I was sweeping half the forest behind me with every step. I would have to do something about my gown.

“I think we should take off our cravats. They are too white and will be seen.”

Not the suggestion I was expecting, but it was a good one: Weatherly’s pristine cravat seemed to almost glow in the dim light.

“Excellent thought.” I tugged at the starched cravat that finished off my riding ensemble, ripping it away from my neck with a swirl of cold air at my throat.

“Allow me, my lady.” I handed over the length of linen. Weatherly carefully folded it and slid it into his greatcoat pocket. Always the quintessential butler. He removed his own cravat, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he considered its length.

“I do have another suggestion, my lady,” he said. “We should leave a trail for Captain Morland and his men to follow. It is not much, but it might help.”

Ah, like the old German fairy tale. I nodded my agreement. “We do not have much in terms of weaponry either, but I do have this.” I pushed my fingers up into my sleeve, found the hilt of the dagger in its sheath, and drew it out.

“Useful,” he said. “May I?”

I gave him the weapon, and after a minute or so of shredding, we had our starched linen breadcrumbs. Weatherly returned the dagger to me. I slid it back into its sheath, then gathered up the hem of my riding habit—glad of the long knitted pantaloons that gave some protection and warmth to my legs—and led the way through a close stand of ash.

Even with the trampled track made by Mulholland and his crew, our progress was hampered by the gloom and the terrain. The ground sloped or dropped without warning under its deceptive cloak of leaves and undergrowth, and twice I tripped upon a hole, only to be caught from injury by Weatherly’s strong reflexes and quick hands. Occasionally a night animal would skitter out of our way, the sound clenching my innards. It felt as if it was taking forever to push our way through, and every minute that passed was a minute that could be Evan’s and Mr. Kent’s last.

In a patch of weak moonlight, I stopped to consult my fob watch, squinting to make out the face. We had been walking for twenty minutes. Dear God. I dropped the watch back upon its chain. A plan was beginning to form in my mind. A plan I did not like, but I could see no other way. I snagged another ribbon upon a twig and forged through yet another patch of dense hazel.

Just as I was beginning to fear we had wandered away from our goal, Weatherly stopped my progress with an arm across my path.

“My lady, look,” he whispered.

Ahead—about three or four hundred feet—I saw a light and what looked to be a clearing with a flicker of movement between the eerily lit tree trunks. Then I heard it: the nicker of horses and the murmur of voices.

We had found them.

We both instinctively crouched. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath misting in small puffs before my mouth.

“I have a plan to get them out,” I whispered. That is, if they were still alive, but I could not bear to voice that thought.

I outlined what each of us was to do, Weatherly shaking his head at each point. “No, my lady. That is too dangerous, especially for you. I heard what Mulholland said at the phaeton. What if—”

Indeed, what if, but I forced that possibility from my mind. The question of how far I would go to save Evan was now squarely in front of me. And the answer, it seemed, was very far indeed.

“Do you have a better idea?” I asked.

He eyed me for a long, agonized second. “I do not.”

I pulled the dagger from my sleeve again. “Then, take it.”

Reluctantly, he took the knife from my hand. It seemed so small in his grip.

I consulted my watch again. If Julia had been successful, the army should be on their way. But would they arrive in time?

“Is everything clear? You know what to do and when to do it?” I asked.

Weatherly drew in a worried breath but nodded.

I rose, half-bent, and led the way. Although every impulse in my body screamed to run across the distance, to find out if Evan and Mr. Kent were alive, we moved slowly from a stand of ash to dense scrubby bushes to a huge oak, its trunk as wide as two men. Every step placed carefully and silently, the seconds ticking away. Sweat trickled down my back by the time we reached our goal: a clump of hazels that edged the clearing. We crouched again. For all our slow momentum, both of us breathed in shallow gasps.

In the clearing, a single lamp had been lit and hung from a tree branch, its light casting a warm glow on the grim tableau below. Mulholland stood with his back to us, his men in a loose half circle around two figures sprawled on the ground with their backs against a large fallen oak, their arms still wrenched back, hands bound behind. Both beaten: Evan with blood oozing from a cut near his temple, Kent with a bloodied mouth.

But both still alive.

Beyond them, near the far tree line, two of Mulholland’s men were digging. Long, shallow indents in the hard autumn ground. For a second the shape did not have meaning; then I pressed my hand against my mouth to stop the realization escaping into sound. Makeshift graves.

I touched Weatherly’s arm. Time for him to go. He gave a nod and then touched his chest, the flat of his hand covering his heart, his brown eyes on mine. How many times had I met those eyes, trusted the calm, shrewd cleverness behind them? Too many to count. I pressed my hand against my heart in return. Then my friend was gone. A silent shadow in a forest of darkness.

I took out my fob watch, fingers fumbling a little with the silver case, and watched the hands in the meager light.

Five minutes and then it would start.

The wait was excruciating, for both my spirit and the searing pain in my crouched thighs. Had I given Weatherly enough time to get into place? Would he be seen before I could act? What if Mulholland did not react as I thought he would? The tumult of doubt and questions and fear quickened my breathing. Good God, Weatherly was right. It was too dangerous. For both of us. And what if it did not work? We would all be dead.

Finally, the watch hand shifted. No more time for thought. Only action. I stood. Took a deep breath through the ache of overworked muscles. And stepped into the edge of the clearing.

“Mulholland, you son of a whore,” I yelled, “your prick is as small as your brain. You are a shag-bag, a worthless coxcomb. Not even a sailor would have your arse!”

All the men whirled around to face me. Yes, look at the madwoman! I kept my gaze fixed upon Mulholland’s stunned face, trying to search for movement behind him but, at the same time, not give the game away.

“What the hell?” one of Mulholland’s men said. “How did she get here?”

I placed my hands upon my hips. “You are a scurvy, useless piece of shit,” I added at full volume, the last gleaned from a lifetime of eavesdropping upon grooms. “Your John Thomas is as poxed as your God-benighted face.”

“Search the perimeter,” Mulholland yelled. He swept an authoritative hand around the circumference of the clearing. “She won’t have come alone.” He pointed to the closest man to Evan and Kent. “You, watch those two.”

Had Weatherly delivered the dagger? For a second, I found Evan’s eyes, but we were too far apart for any communication other than his stiffened shock at my sudden appearance. And then Mulholland ran at me, faster than I had anticipated, arms pumping, every step promising violence.

I hoisted up my gown hem and turned, launching myself back into the undergrowth. I tried to retrace my steps, past the big oak, jumping over the dips and hollows I remembered, ducking the branches, hoping my footfalls did not plunge into a hole and send me sprawling. Every breath was hard and hot in my chest, a fiery agony of effort.

I heard shouts of triumph, a voice yelling, “We got the Black cove,” and knew Weatherly had been found. Dear God. I bunched my gown higher, but holding it up hampered my stride, the hem snagging on a shrub. I staggered and wrenched it free. Too many seconds lost. He was gaining on me—hard breathing, the thud of feet, branches snapping. I ducked down and dug my fingernails into the forest floor, scraping up a handful of damp dirt. Keep moving. Keep running.

“Where are you, bitch?”

So close. Only a dense thicket of hazel and gorse between us. I stopped and held my breath, tucking in my chin to hide the pale giveaway of my skin.

“I told you what would happen if you followed me,” he said, his voice a caressing singsong that sent a chill across my skin. By the crack of twigs and the sound of his breathing, he was walking to the edge of the thicket. If he turned my way, he would see me.

Another step. The crunch of dried leaves. The smell of earth in my hand.

And then I saw his huge body, his teeth bared in predatory delight. “Got you.”

He lunged. I threw the dirt, hard, enough of it hitting his face in a blinding spread. He reeled back, but not far enough, his hand grabbing the skirt of my habit as I turned to run, his weight and strength dragging me backward. Frantically, I twisted, punching at his face as he coughed, but he caught my wrist. I tried to wrench it free from his grasp, but he was too strong. I swung my other hand, fingers clawed to scratch, but his fist was faster, heavier. The pain of the punch exploded into my eyes, a burst of white agony that ripped away my breath and jagged through my head.

I buckled, falling, my momentum stopped by tight arms around my ribs. He hauled me upright, pinning me against his chest. My hands locked against my pounding heart, the smell of his sour, unwashed body thick in my throat.

“Now then,” he said against my ear, his breath hot and fetid. “Let’s see how brave you really are.”