by Anna Bradley
“No!” Benedict’s voice was louder than he’d intended it to be. Georgiana jumped, and even Brixton, whom Benedict had never seen caught off guard before, jerked his head toward Benedict in surprise. “You’ll stay out of the way, just as Brixton says.”
For the first time ever, Brixton gave him an approving look. “Aye. It’s best that way, lass.”
Georgiana didn’t appear to hear him. She was staring at Benedict, her lips tight. “Is that so, my lord? I beg your pardon, but the duchess engaged my services, not you. My loyalty is to her. As fond as you are at issuing commands, I don’t recall ever agreeing to follow them.”
“Then don’t follow my commands. Follow Brixton’s. It makes no difference to me, as long as you keep to the side where you’re less likely to be trampled by a horse or caught beneath the coach’s wheels.”
“This may surprise you, Lord Haslemere, but I’m perfectly capable of—”
“I don’t care what you think you’re capable of, Miss Harley.” On some distant level, Benedict realized he’d lost control, but he was becoming more agitated with every word out of her mouth. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing her bloody, mangled body under the horses’ massive hooves, or worse, with one of Kenilworth’s savage footmen with his hands around her neck.
She didn’t answer, but the expression on her face didn’t inspire confidence. Her lips were tight, and that incredulous eyebrow remained arched, but Benedict refused to give in.
Grigg was urging the horses forward, and they were closing in on the black coach. “They’ve seen us, my lord!” he shouted through the open panel. “Hold on tight, now. I’ll have to speed up to catch them at the bend, and it’ll be a hard stop.”
“Do what you must, Grigg, but see that you catch them.” Benedict braced his feet against the floor, then reached for Georgiana. She squeaked in surprise as he slid her across the bench and tucked her as tightly against the length of his body as he could, to protect her if the coach did hit them.
“Lord Haslemere!” She made an attempt to squirm away from him.
“Quiet,” Benedict hissed, holding her fast. “All right there, Brixton?”
Brixton snorted. “Don’t worry about me, Haslemere. This won’t be the first time I’ve been knocked about. Just mind ye take care of that lass.”
The sky had gone an ominous black above them. The road was dark, and they were moving at such a brisk pace the view outside the window was an indistinct blur, but Benedict caught a glimpse of the coach as they careened past, a bulky shadow in the darkness. The duke’s horses let out a frightened screech as the carriage sped by them. There was a shout—Grigg, Benedict thought—an answering curse, then a jolt as Grigg wrenched the horses to the left, bringing them broadside across the road.
There was another shout, this one edged with panic. The carriage shuddered around them, every seam creaking as they tipped to the right, listing dangerously until Benedict was sure they’d go over. He closed his eyes and tightened his arms around Georgiana, but just as he’d braced himself for a crash into the ditch, the carriage fell back onto its wheels again with a wrench, sending them all crashing to the floor.
And then…pandemonium, as everyone scrambled from their vehicles at once.
“Don’t move, Georgiana.” Benedict swept her off to the side of the road, away from a battle that was already shaping up to be an ugly one. Kenilworth’s coachman scrambled down from the box, and the two footmen erupted from the carriage, shouting and cursing. “Promise me!”
Georgiana didn’t promise, but they were already in the midst of the frenzy by then, and there was no time for Benedict to do anything but dart for the coach. A child’s terrified cries rose from inside, swelling above the commotion. “Freddy!”
“Mind the coachman’s pistol, Haslemere!”
Before Benedict could react to Brixton’s warning a sharp crack echoed in the night, and a pistol ball flew past his head, a mere fraction away from striking his temple.
“Benedict!”
The night tried to steal Georgiana’s scream. Benedict heard her, but when he turned back, she was no longer there. He whirled around, his heart rushing into his throat when he caught a glimpse of her dark red skirts rounding the side of Kenilworth’s carriage.
“Georgiana!” He started to go after her, but one of Kenilworth’s footmen charged at him and knocked him to the ground. He rolled and was up again in a flash, his fists clenched and a snarl on his lips, but Grigg, who was small and wiry, had leapt onto the man’s back and was pressing his forearm into his windpipe.
“Good man, Grigg.” Benedict wiped his eyes to clear the dust, then seized ahold of the footman. “Let him go. I’ve got him. Go after Miss Harley.”
Grigg dropped nimbly to the ground and darted around the side of the carriage while Benedict dragged the footman, who was still choking and coughing, to the side of the road and, with one powerful shove, heaved him into the ditch.
Benedict whirled around again to find Brixton making quick and brutal work of the other footman. The man’s hand was pressed to his nose, blood spurting through his fingers and gushing down his chin. “Here, Brixton!”
Brixton turned, and Benedict jerked his head toward the ditch. “Over the side. Neither of them is climbing up from that hole anytime soon.”
A ferocious grin spread over Brixton’s face as he dragged the man through the dirt to the edge of the embankment and tossed him gleefully over the edge. “Yer smarter than ye look, Haslemere.”
“I’m just glad we’re on the same side,” Benedict muttered as he charged back toward the coach with Brixton on his heels. The only one of Kenilworth’s men who was unaccounted for was the coachman, but he was the one who had the pistol, and Georgiana…
Georgiana was nowhere to be seen.
“The lass?” Brixton shouted. “Where’s the—”
They caught sight of her at the same time, hurrying around the back of the coach, Freddy in her arms. Waiting for her on the other side, just out of her sight, was the coachman, his pistol drawn.
A sound tore from Benedict’s throat, a cry of warning, deep and raw and painful, and then he was running, his boots sliding over the loose dirt, his heart pounding, his gaze fixed on the muzzle of the pistol as it lifted, aimed…and then, incredibly he was there, seizing the man’s wrist and wrenching it into the air, a blast ripping through the night as Benedict slammed the man into the side of the coach.
Brixton was on them the next second. “Into Haslemere’s carriage,” he shouted to Georgiana as he snatched the pistol from the coachman’s hand. “Both of you. Hurry, lass.”
Georgiana hardly spared them a glance as she darted past them, but instead of doing as Brixton bid her, she shoved Freddy into Grigg’s arms, then turned and rushed back toward the coach.
“Georgiana!” Benedict roared. “Get back—”
“Some help, Haslemere?” Brixton was pressing the coachman’s face into the dirt, grunting as the man howled and cursed and thrashed to get free.
Benedict grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him to his feet. “Quiet, you bloody villain,” he snarled as he dragged him across the road, and without the slightest hesitation, tossed him into the ditch. To his shock, Brixton scrambled after the man, skidding and slipping down the side of the ditch, the coachman’s pistol still in his hand. “Brixton, what the devil are you doing?”
“Never mind me. Fetch the lass, Haslemere.”
“Don’t shoot them,” Benedict warned before he turned and flew back to the coach. Georgiana was just emerging from the thick cloud of dust raised by the scuffle, her arm around Jane’s shoulders as she helped her toward his carriage. “Jane!”
Jane’s head jerked up. “Benedict!” She rushed toward him.
Benedict gathered her into his chest, his eyes closing. “Jane, thank God. You’re not hurt?”
“N-no, but yo
u have to listen to me, Benedict.” Jane clutched at his coat with frantic fingers, struggling to catch her breath. “You must leave this alone! Promise me, Benedict—swear to me you won’t dig any further into the duke’s secrets.”
“I can’t do that, Jane. I won’t.” Benedict’s heart broke to see her in such distress, but Kenilworth had tried to kidnap her and Freddy, damn him. There was no going back from that. “Tell me what Kenilworth has done, Jane. Why are you so frightened of him?”
“You have no idea what he’s capable of, Benedict. He…he’ll make you pay, just like…” Jane trailed off, her face crumpling.
“Let me worry about Kenilworth—”
“No! Benedict, wait.” Jane clung to his hands with icy cold fingers. “You should know what you’re risking. The duke isn’t the only one with secrets. Freddy is…h-he’s not Kenilworth’s heir.”
“Not his heir?” Benedict stared at her, numb with shock, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Jane—”
“Time to move on, Haslemere.” Brixton had climbed out of the ditch and was approaching the carriage, clutching three pairs of boots in his hands. “I took their boots. It’ll slow ’em down, but they’ll find their way out of that ditch sooner or later. We’d best be gone before then.”
“No! Where are you going?” Jane’s eyes were wild as she clawed at Benedict’s coat. “Don’t go! Benedict, please. He’ll come after you. He’ll hurt you—”
“It’s all right, Jane.” Benedict cupped her head and eased it down to his chest, but over her head, he met Brixton’s gaze. “Take Freddy and Jane in my carriage, and Brixton? You and Lady Clifford will take care of them?”
“Aye. We’ll keep ’em safe.”
Benedict nodded, but his throat was tight as he led Jane to his carriage and handed her up. “Go with Mr. Brixton, Jane. He’ll take you to Lady Clifford. All right there, Freddy?” He leaned into the door, a false, reassuring smile on his face, but as soon as he got a look at his nephew, it vanished.
Freddy’s eye was swollen closed, and his cheek shadowed with ugly black and purple bruises. Benedict stared at the boy’s injury, rage and grief swelling in his chest until he was gasping for breath.
He held out his arms to his nephew, and Freddy dove into them with a strangled sob. Benedict gathered him tightly against his chest, stroked his hair, and murmured soothingly to him until the boy’s trembling eased. “I’ll see you soon, all right, my boy?” Benedict forced a smile, and chucked Freddy gently under the chin. “You’ll take care of your mama for me, won’t you?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Freddy whispered.
“Good boy.”
Benedict gave Freddy a gentle squeeze and set him back in his seat, but before he could close the carriage door, Jane grabbed his arm. “Benedict, I’m begging you to leave it be. I can’t…if something should happen to you…I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t lose me, Jane.” Benedict pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I promise it.”
“Close the door, Haslemere,” Brixton called down from the coachman’s box. “Well, lass? Are you coming, or not?”
Benedict turned to find Georgiana standing behind him, her dark red gown streaked with dirt, her face white. She was silent as she watched him close the carriage door, an expression he couldn’t read in her eyes.
“No,” she said at last, shifting her gaze to Brixton. “I’m going with Lord Haslemere. You’ll tell Lady Clifford, Daniel?”
“Aye, lass. I’ll tell her.” Daniel brought the ribbons down, and the horses started with a nervous jerk.
Within moments the carriage was off, swallowed into the darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgiana didn’t know where they were going, but wherever it was, Grigg was wasting no time getting them there. Or perhaps he was just in a great hurry to get them away from here.
She gazed out the window, but she didn’t see anything. She didn’t hear anything, and she didn’t say a word, just sat dumbly on the seat, thinking about…nothing. Such a thing had never happened to her before, but it was as if her head had been pumped full of fog, and every coherent thought was lost in the mist.
Was this what it felt like to be in shock? Yes, that was likely what was happening. Her brain, bombarded with too many appalling things to consider at once, had chosen not to consider any of them. It was rather comforting, really, to think about nothing.
She might have stayed in her blessed fog forever if Benedict hadn’t cleared his throat. “I’ve never objected to speechlessness in a lady before, but right now, it’s making me nervous. Say something, would you?”
Georgiana turned to find a pair of dark eyes fixed on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again without uttering a single word.
Say something, say something…
But where did she even begin? With the coachman and two footmen they’d left bootless at the bottom of a ditch? The traveling coach they’d just stolen? Snatching a duchess out from underneath her husband’s nose? The pistol ball that had nearly left Benedict facedown on the road, his life’s blood draining into the dirt beneath him?
Now she’d allowed herself to think, one terrifying image after another whirled through her head, each one more awful than the last. But as the disturbing scenes chased each other across her eyelids, one stood out from the rest, and made her blood run cold. “Did you…did you see Freddy’s face?”
Benedict didn’t reply right away. He seemed to be struggling with his emotions. At last he gritted out, “I saw it.”
Georgiana shuddered, a chill deeper and colder than any she’d ever felt before seizing her and shaking her like a ragdoll. She’d never forget the sight of the boy’s face when she’d flung open the coach’s door and held out her arms to him. He’d been white as a ghost, his mouth twisted with fear, his eye blackened and swollen closed, the tender skin underneath it purple, and an angry red gash across his cheekbone. The wound was the same size and shape as…
A man’s fist.
The duke wasn’t a good man. Georgiana knew that, but what she hadn’t known was that he was a monster. A sob caught in her throat as she recalled the way Freddy had crawled into her arms without hesitation when she’d held them out to him. Such trust from a child who had been on the other end of a blow tonight.
But she fought back the tears before they could spill over. She didn’t cry. Ever.
“This ends tonight. Whatever I have to do, wherever we have to go, I’ll make certain the duke never sees either Jane or Freddy again.” Benedict’s hands were opening and closing into fists.
Without thinking, Georgiana lay her own hand over his, stilling them. “What can we do?” The duke was wealthy, titled, and possessed of a spotless—if false—reputation. Jane was his wife. As unfair as it was, he could do whatever he liked with her.
“We can get to the truth of the secret between Kenilworth and the Earl of Draven.”
Georgiana’s brows drew together. “What secret? As far as we know, the secret is between Lord Draven and Jane, not Draven and Kenilworth.”
“Not according to Lady Archer.”
Benedict was half-hidden in darkness, but the moonlight illuminated enough of his face to reveal his expression, and dread washed over Georgiana at what she saw there. “W-What do you mean? What did Lady Archer tell you?”
“It seems Kenilworth and Draven aren’t quite the dear friends Mrs. Bury made them out to be.” Benedict dragged a hand through his hair. “They fought a duel when they returned to London after that house party.”
Georgiana gasped. “A duel! Were they fighting over Jane?”
His face was bleak. “Lady Archer thinks so. She also said she believes Kenilworth is responsible for the attack on Draven. They’re sworn enemies, Georgiana, and that’s not the worst of it.”
Georgiana clutched his hand. “What do you mean?”
Benedict’s cold fingers wrapped around hers. “Tonight, Jane told me Freddy isn’t Kenilworth’s heir.”
“Not his heir? Does that mean he’s Lord Draven’s…” Georgiana fell back against the seat, too stunned to force the word from her lips.
“I’m not sure what it means, but whatever happened between Kenilworth and Draven must reveal the duke to be the monster he is, otherwise he wouldn’t be going to such great lengths to keep it a secret. I intend to find out what he’s hiding.”
Georgiana was quiet as she turned Benedict’s words over in her mind. Some mysterious disagreement between the duke and Draven had led to a duel. Lord Draven and Jane had a murky past that might or might not include a long-standing love affair, and both of them were searching for Clara Beauchamp—a search that had led to Lord Draven lying unconscious in his bed, his skull cracked open by a gang of ruffians, and an attempt by the duke to spirit his wife and son out of London in the dark of night.
It was like one of Freddy’s dissected puzzles, but with half the pieces lost six years ago, and the other half scattered across England.
What did any of this have to do with Clara Beauchamp? Was she the only one who knew the truth about Freddy? If Freddy truly wasn’t the duke’s son and Clara knew it, mightn’t that be a reason Draven and Jane were searching for her?
“Clara Beauchamp is at the crux of this, Benedict. If we can find Clara, we’ll find the truth, but where do we begin? Your sister claims she saw Clara in London a week or so ago, but no one else seems to have seen her, not even Lady Trowbridge.”
“We won’t find what we’re looking for in London, but we might find it at Draven’s estate in High Wycombe. Clara Beauchamp vanished that night. Someone there knows something about it. If not Draven’s servants, then his neighbors. There are as many gossips in the country as in London. You can be sure someone will be overjoyed to tell us all about it.”
Georgiana nodded slowly. It was their best hope, but it wasn’t without its own risks. “The duke will send his men after us.”
