“But you promised not to surrender me to Bow Street.”
“And I stand by that promise. But my associates may not.”
Her face fell before she turned away. Her shoulders began to shake as she cried silently. For the first time, he felt mild pity for the young woman’s situation. However, he pushed the emotion aside with the righteous logic that she alone was responsible for her unfavorable circumstances.
Chapter Three
Lucy rode ahead in silence for some time, first in shock from her apparent complicity in the crime, and then grieving the death of her newborn plan. Dismay gave way to frustration, which eventually found an outlet toward the Redbreast.
“You must have enjoyed that.”
“Enjoyed what,” he said.
“Crushing my plan with your foul logic and then sentencing me to hang. I imagine you cannot deem a day successful unless you ruin someone. Consider your day fulfilled.”
“Oh, but of course. I especially enjoy the suffering of widows and orphans, and regularly stand outside workhouses hurling taunts and epithets at the desperately poor. I am not nearly as noble as you are, Saint Lucy.”
She shifted in her saddle to face him. “That is yet another point of vexation. You know my name but I do not know yours. Although I might never tire of inventing humiliating monikers for you, I would rather address you by name.” With sarcasm she added, “As befits your station.”
He frowned as if considering the prudence of sharing his name. Then he rolled his eyes. “Very well. Mr. Henry Beaumont, son of the late Earl of Ravensheugh.”
She cocked her head to one side with surprise. That was a name she had not heard for half a lifetime. “Henry Beaumont?”
“Yes.”
“From Ravensheugh in Northumberland?”
“As I said.”
She faced the trail ahead, recalling a long-ago visit and a reclusive boy. She shook her head and mumbled, “You have changed, Friday.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
They rode tacitly onward for another hour until dusk forced a consideration of logistics.
“We should stop for the night and ride on at first light,” said Henry.
Lucy frowned. “The others might be on our trail. I say we ride through the night.”
“This is something you do regularly, then? Ride in pitch darkness?”
“No.”
“Have youeverridden in pitch darkness?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you do not realize that such action endangers both you and your mount. If your horse breaks a leg or you crack your skull, then Bow Street or your accomplices will catch you, regardless.”
She wanted to disagree but found no means to penetrate his simple logic. “As you wish, Sir Know-It-All. Perhaps you might suggest an appropriate campsite as well, since I, a mere woman, cannot be trusted with such a difficult decision.”
“By all means, Lucy of the Wood,” came his thickly sarcastic reply. “I happily abdicate that decision to you. Unless, of course, it taxes your feeble mind too greatly.”
She huffed loudly. “We cross the creek and camp away from the trail where we might hide the horses. If that pleases your lordship.”
“It does.”
