by Sara Reinke
Chapter Nineteen
Charlotte and Will rode upon a grim scene at Beech Hill. As they approached, Charlotte could still smell the fading odor of gun smoke in the air. She saw bodies lying sprawled facedown and motionless in the road; Lord Essex’s footman and driver had both been shot and killed as they had tried to flee. The carriage had slid to a clumsy halt against the side of the road, and listed precariously with its right wheels in the grass. She could see the soft glow of its coach lights as they drew near, and two additional bodies prone against the ground. Her heart seized in terror at the sight of them.
“Reilly!” she whimpered breathlessly. Reilly and Lewis’s abandoned horses wandered untethered nearby, large shadows emerging from the fog. “Will, what has happened?”
A silhouette staggered toward them, lumbering out of the fog and Charlotte heard the distinctive clack of a pistol hammer being drawn back. “Ho, there!” the man shouted out loudly, hoarsely.
“Lewis!” Will shouted back. “Lewis! It is us!”
At his cry, Charlotte realized the two other bodies in the road were Julian Stockley and Camden Iden. Like Cheadle, the two young men were dressed all in black.
They had lost their tricornes, and the broad flaps of their greatcoat tails lay draped against the dirt, like the lifeless wings of felled crows.
Lewis lowered his gun at Will’s shout. “Lord Essex has been shot,” he said grimly. “We were too late.”
“What?” Charlotte gasped. “No, oh, no!”
She swung her leg around and hopped from her saddle without even reining her nag to a complete halt. She stumbled clumsily to claim her footing and rushed toward Lewis as Will dismounted behind her. “Is he dead?” she cried at Lewis, and he blinked at her in surprise.
“Charlotte?” he asked, bewildered. He looked toward his cousin. “Where is Cheadle?”
“Dead,” Will said. “Where is the earl?”
“He is here,” Reilly said, and Charlotte whirled to find him kneeling beside the coach, holding someone in his arms.
“Reilly!” she cried, hurrying toward him. Reilly blinked up at her, his eyes flying wide.
“Charlotte?” he gasped. “What are you doing here?” His brows furrowed as he caught sight of Will. “Are you bloody mad? What is she doing here?”
“Apparently taking care of Edmond Cheadle for us,” Lewis said. “Will says she shot him dead.”
Charlotte knelt beside her brother. Lord Essex was unconscious, cradled against Reilly’s chest. His coat was stained with blood; he had been shot in the gut, and Reilly held his hand pressed firmly over the wound to try to stave the blood loss.
“You shot Cheadle?” Reilly asked.
She nodded, looking at him in aghast. “Is Lord Essex dying?” she whispered.
“I do not know,” Reilly said, his stern expression softening. “We were too late, Charlotte. We managed to stop them, but they… they…”
Lord Essex moaned softly, feebly, tucking his cheek against Reilly’s shoulder. “We have to do something, Reilly,” Charlotte said, staring in wide-eyed horror. “He cannot die. He… please, he cannot!”
“We can bring him to Theydon,” Will said, leading his cousin toward them. Lewis leaned heavily against the younger man for support, limping clumsily.
“Lewis, you have been hurt!” Charlotte gasped, and he shook his head, waving his pistol dismissively.
“A pellet through my boot,” he said. “In the sole and out the top. I had not even reined my horse to a stop yet. Thank God it was Camden Iden who took the shot; the man cannot hold his arm steady to shave his own chin, much less level a pistol.”
“Charlotte, come help Lewis,” Will said. “Reilly, let me take the earl. You cannot carry him, not with your ribs.”
“He needs a surgeon,” Reilly said. “We need to get him to London.”
“He will never make it back to London,” Will said. He genuflected before Reilly, drawing his arms about Lord Essex’s shoulders and beneath his knees. “Let me take him,” he said softly. “Come on. We have to get to Theydon.”
