by Cora Lee
Sarah heard a dull thunk and her assailant grunted. Then, just as quickly as he’d dominated her he released her.
She opened her eyes, only then realizing that she’d closed them, and gasped for air. Her attacker was still standing, but had turned his attention to another party in the room.
“Hartland!” she croaked painfully. He stood in the center of her chamber, an unfastened brigandine draped over his shoulders, holding a pistol by its long barrel. The butt had blood on it.
“Run, Sarah!”
She tried desperately to make her legs work, but her body refused to obey. She slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her face as her chest heaved. Hart and the assailant were grunting, each throwing punches in an effort to subdue the other. The assailant’s punches were measured, strategically placed on Hart’s face, chest, and body, where he wasn’t protected by the brigandine. Hart, on the other hand, was swinging ferociously, connecting enough times to make his opponent stagger back a step.
But not enough to knock him out.
Sarah got to her hands and knees, crawling around the perimeter of the room toward her bed. If she could get behind Hart, he would literally shield her from further attack and she could reach Joanna’s pocket-sized pistol. Her pace was agonizingly slow, but her limbs felt heavier than the boxes of books that used to arrive at her parents’ shop and just as difficult to move. She was gasping and coughing with the effort, but Hart was losing ground to the larger attacker and she couldn’t stop now.
After what seemed an age, she finally reached the head of her bed. The pistol wasn’t where she left it and for one terrifying moment she thought she and Hart were both going to die in this little inn. Then she spotted the gun under the bed and lunged for it. Turning over onto her back she took aim, using her remaining energy to hold her arms steady and pull the trigger.
The tang of burning gunpowder filled her nose and her arms dropped to the floor. Had she hit him? Was he dead? Was Hart? She had no strength left to lift her head and look.
“Sarah?”
Hart was bending over her, his roughened hand caressing her face, his brown eyes wide with fear.
“Hartland,” she whispered. She managed a smile to reassure him before her eyes drifted closed.
She felt arms slid beneath her, lifting her off the floor and placing her gently on the bed. “Fetch a physician!” Hart yelled at someone. To her he said softly, “Where are you hurt?”
“Throat.” It was barely a word, but he seemed to understand.
“Anywhere else?”
She shook her head ever so slightly. Her hands and knees were sore from crawling, but that was a minor concern.
She opened her eyes as he sat down beside her, leaning over her to inspect her neck. The grimace on his face told her everything she needed to know about her condition. His wasn’t much better—bruises were beginning to form on his cheek and one eye, his shirt was torn and bloody beneath his open brigandine. Whether it was his own blood or his opponent’s, Sarah couldn’t tell. But he was whole and alive, and when he held her hand against his chest she could feel his heart beating against her palm.
“Footmen?”
Hart shook his head. “Dead. Both stabbed.”
“Is he...?”
She tried to point her chin toward the man on the floor, and Hart glanced back at him. “He’s alive. Wounded, but alive.”
“How bad...?”
“How badly is he wounded?” When she nodded, Hart turned again. Richards was binding their assailant while the innkeeper pressed a towel to his back. “Looks like your shot struck somewhere near his shoulder blade. And there’s an ugly gash where I hit him with the butt of his own pistol—he was courteous enough to leave two of them on the floor for me.”
She was too exhausted to contemplate what that meant for the mortality of the man who’d tried to kill her, too drained even to cry. Her fingers curled around Hart’s and her eyes closed again. She knew he’d see to her care and comfort, and to the man being dragged from her chamber.
He bowed his head against her shoulder and took in a shaky breath. “If I had been half a minute later...”
She summoned an energy reserve she didn’t realize she had and loosened her hand from his, wrapping him in her arms. He reciprocated, carefully raising her from her pillow to hold her close.
“You weren’t,” she whispered. That’s when the tears came, bringing with them big, racking sobs that tore at her throat. Hart held her tighter, cradling her head with one hand, his face pressed to her shoulder.
Later, when the physician had come and gone, prescribing rest and as little talking as possible for a few days, Lucy helped her change into a fresh nightgown. The one she’d been wearing was torn where it had caught on a nail during her odyssey across the chamber floor, and Hart had transferred some of the blood on him to her. Lucy slipped the clean nightgown over Sarah’s head and bundled up the soiled one at the end of the bed to discard later. As she strode to the other side of the room to lay out her mistress’s clothing for the morning, Sarah let her gaze drift to the damaged nightgown.
Among the rips and the blood where two small, slightly damp patches on the shoulder of the gown.
Chapter Fifteen
They traveled around the clock after the attack at the inn, stopping only to change horses and refresh themselves. Hart knew it was uncomfortable for Sarah, knew that she didn’t sleep well in the carriage as it rattled along the bumpy roads. But they were safer if they kept moving. Twice now he’d failed to protect her and she’d nearly died.
He would not fail her a third time.
She convalesced for another day after they reached Elliott House, but then insisted she could handle preparations for the ball. He acquiesced, hoping the activity would keep her from dwelling on the attack. When Joanna arrived, he breathed both a metaphorical and literal sigh of relief. In her work as a spy for Wellington, Joanna had been to many a ball and could be Sarah’s voice when her own became weak.
Hart remained with her as often as possible, unwilling to let her out of his sight. He even began slipping into her bedchamber at night, relieving her maid to sit with Sarah as she slept, climbing into her bed and holding her close when nightmares made her cry out.
His own injuries looked worse than they were—a couple of cracked ribs and a broken finger hidden beneath an assortment of bruises. Their assailant had been well-controlled during the attack, but Hart had been able to block some of the punches thrown his way. He didn’t even care about the ones that had connected. He’d heal, and the pain felt like penance for allowing Sarah to be half-strangled.
~~~
They ended up with fourteen guests who had been told the real reason for Hart’s ball, ten of whom were trained fighters. Wolf had declined Hart’s invitation to take care of his own business, so he wouldn’t be participating. And Hugh Bannerman wouldn’t be fighting anyone, having only agreed to come out of his self-imposed seclusion to rig the fireworks show Sarah had requested. But the others in Wellington’s intelligence gathering ring were willing and able to do what was needed when the time came.
Four ladies temporarily joined the team, too. None of them officially knew about the ring—though Hart suspected they knew more than they were supposed to—but were all either married or betrothed to one of its members. They’d volunteered to help in whatever way they could, and had in turn been given the details of the threat against Sarah.
They were all gathered together in Hart’s library, with the exception of Bannerman, sipping after-dinner port or tea two days before the ball, brimming with questions about their roles in the apprehension of the London shop bomber.
“Where do you want me to be?”
“What shall I do?”
“What does this Lady Rebecca look like?”
“Will she bring bombs to the ball?”
“What do we do if she brings other weapons?”
Hart held up his hands to quiet the room. “Perhaps this would be a good t
ime for Lady Hartland to explain her plan.”
An eyebrow or two was raised, but after working with a very capable Joanna for the past four years, Hart figured the surprise was due more to the fact that the men from Wellington’s intelligence gathering ring had never met Sarah before this night. She stood, her pale yellow gown with delicate lace on the hem and sleeves reinforcing the notion that she was a typical aristocratic female.
“For anyone not in this room, this ball should be exactly what they expect. There will be dancing, refreshments, a card room, and torches at the back of the outbuilding to light the way for anyone seeking a reprieve from the crowd. Mr. Bannerman is putting together a fireworks display that guests will be able to watch from the lawn. Then we go to work.”
Hart noted that the eyebrows had returned to their resting state, and all eyes were on Sarah. She managed to speak with authority without raising her voice past the limit the physician had set or resorting to the quips and puns he tended to employ, holding the attention of each person in the room. Not one pair of eyes wandered toward the clock on the mantel, nor did one hand pick at a loose thread.
“Based on what my husband has told me about everyone, I’ve devised assignments for each of you. We’ll go through the plan here, then take up our positions and rehearse a little to make sure everyone is clear on their part.”
She turned to her left and nodded to the archer in the group. “Mr. Hoskins, you will be our lookout for the evening. We have a ladder long enough to reach the lower roof on either wing of the house, and you may choose your perch from any place you can reach. I’ll give you a full description of your quarry, and you’ll blow this whistle—” Sarah handed Hoskins a silver-plated whistle that had belonged to Hart’s father. “—when she is within sight. The earlier the warning, the better.”
“Sounds like a lovely evening,” Hoskins answered, accepting the small instrument with a smile. “We should have torches along the front drive as well for better viewing.”
“Already ordered,” Sarah nodded. “Lord Adam St. Peters and Miss Watson, you will join Mr. Hoskins as lookouts. One of you will be positioned at the foot of the drive, one a short distance down the road. Be sure to stay close enough to each other to hear the whistles. The more eyes we have watching, the better our chances are of spotting her before she does any damage.”
She handed whistles to Miss Watson and St. Peters, who accepted them with a glance at each other. St Peters looked a mite worried, and Hart sympathized with the man. It couldn’t have been easy to watch his recently betrothed put herself potentially in harm’s way. Miss Watson, though, was grinning.
“Lord Thorston and Mr. Devlin, you are charged with perimeter security—it will be up to you keep Lady Rebecca from entering the house. She could arrive alone or with any number of companions, so you’ll need to be alert. If you cannot apprehend her, or them, then at the very least you will need to delay their entry as long as possible. Hartland has handpicked a small group of footmen to accompany you and help cover more ground.”
Thorston exchanged glances with his assigned partner, then turned his attention back to Sarah. “You may rely upon us.”
“Good,” Hart interjected. The ferocious scowl Thorston wore and the stony expression on Devlin’s face were proof enough that they understood what was at stake, but Hart said it anyway. “Because if Rebecca or anyone she’s working with gets inside this house, Sarah’s life is in real danger.”
Silence hung in the air for a brief moment before Sarah continued. “Major Oliver and Captain Alexander, you two will act as a second line of defense inside the house with your own contingent of handpicked footmen. If Lady Rebecca or any of her associates make it into the house, it will be your job to stop her.”
The two military men nodded their assent to Sarah, no doubt planning strategies in their minds already.
“Miss Hale and Mrs. Hoskins,” Sarah continued, “Your task will be to stay with our guests in the outbuilding in the event Rebecca discovers our relocation of the ball. I am her primary target, but she has already demonstrated that she will kill and injure others as well, so you will need to be on the lookout for anything unusual.”
Miss Atwell had mentioned earlier that Mrs. Hoskins was also an excellent fighter, and Hart approved of the choice to keep her with the crowd. It built in another layer of protection should someone with bad intentions get past the rest of the security measures.
“That’s what the fireworks show is for, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hoskins asked. “So we have something to distract the guests?”
“Exactly,” Sarah replied. “Lord Adam Bateman, Mr. Bannerman will need assistance with the fireworks. He will have the materials already prepared, but the display he has planned requires more than one person.”
Bateman frowned slightly, as if he’d hoped for a different assignment. Hart probably would have been disappointed, too, to be stuck outside away from the action. But the show Bannerman had designed really did require more than one set of hands, and Bateman could also help to keep his friend’s notorious temper in check. They couldn’t afford a raging Bannerman in addition to the threat Rebecca already posed.
“Miss Atwell and Mrs. Perkins, you are tasked with my personal safety. Hartland and I disagreed about how much protection I needed,” she sent a wry smile his way, and he responded with his signature grin. Hart had tried to insist on a dozen guards until she’d revealed her choices. “But I believe your physical skills will be excellent assets.”
“We will make sure you are unharmed,” Miss Atwell said, and Hart knew she meant it. He’d never seen her fight, but if Alexander was to be believed, his fiancée could more than handle herself if the evening got rough.
“That leaves Hartland and Mr. Fortescue,” Sarah continued. “You two will be on phosgene cleanup duty if any of the gas is released. All you’ll need to handle is water and chalk, but phosgene is dangerous and so is the muriatic acid that is produced when it breaks down. Hartland has protective clothing you both can wear, and the staff working inside the house have orders to open all windows when given the signal.”
Hart’s grin faded. He’d much rather have been in the thick of things, protecting his wife or guarding the metaphorical gates. But his injuries from the attack at the inn curtailed his physical participation. Ridding the house of any phosgene that might be unleashed, though, was an important assignment, one Sarah had wanted to handle herself. But no one could be sure how or when Rebecca might release the gas, and Sarah might be too busy trying to stay alive herself to worry about a house full of poison.
“Is everyone clear on their duties?”
Heads nodded all around the room, including Hart’s. He reminded himself that it was a solid plan and a formidable group executing it, that even if they couldn’t foresee every possibility, they would adapt to whatever situation presented itself. But he couldn’t shake the fear that gripped his heart.
Sarah surveyed her troops. The expression on her face was one of satisfaction, but when Hart looked more closely he could see her hands shaking.
~~~
Sarah sat at the escritoire in her chamber after everyone else had gone to bed, reading the letters the Marquess of Thorston had brought from her mother. Mrs. Shipton complained a little of the weather, that periodic storms were keeping her confined to the house. But she spent paragraphs describing Lord Thorston’s care of her, how he devised entertainments for her and escorted her any time she wanted to leave the estate. She mentioned missing Sarah and wanting to get to know her new son-in-law, but overall she seemed to be in good spirits. Lord Thorston had kept his word; Mrs. Shipton was safe.
A knock sounded at her door and Sarah jumped. She’d put on a calm, cool exterior for her guests earlier in the evening, relieved for the chance to work and plan and push the danger from her mind. But after the attack at the inn, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel truly safe and settled again.
“Come in.”
The door swung open and Hartland stepped insi
de, no longer wearing the tailcoat he’d donned for the gathering in the library, but still clad in his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. He shut the door carefully behind him and made his way over to her, coming to a halt a couple of feet from her chair.
“Are you all right?”
Sarah blinked and realized she had unshed tears in her eyes. Her emotions were still too close to the surface for her liking after the last attack. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “I was just reading letters from my mother that Lord Thorston was kind enough to carry. I suppose I missed her more than I realized.”
Hartland reached out and stroked her shoulder. “Thorston swears she’s hale and hearty.”
“She is,” Sarah replied, covering his hand with one of hers. “And she sounds as if she’s enjoying herself. I will have to thank him for his diligence and generosity.”
“I already have, but I suspect he’d be much more receptive to you.” Hart winked, then turned his hand over under hers and curled his fingers around her palm. “I’ve come to ask you a favor. No, make that two favors.”
His voice was low, almost soft. What could he want from her? “Ask what you will.”
“Is there any way I can talk you out of attending the ball tomorrow night? I can have a carriage ready in minutes to take you anywhere you might want to go.”
He probably had his best coachman already waiting. “You know I can’t. There’s no telling what Rebecca will do if I’m not there, and I will not put the lives of you and your friends at more risk than they already are.”
“But you would be safe.”
She shook her head, turning her body toward his. “Maybe safe for a while, but not for good.”
“Safe for a while is better than dead tomorrow.” His words were practically whispered, and there was no sign of his usual grin or sarcasm now. “I promised to protect you, and letting you walk into the arms of a murderer is no form of protection I’ve ever heard of.”