Seth instinctively retreated, his hand raised in warning against the man who approached with a length of rope. At this, Rufus erupted into a protective frenzy, his barks slicing through the tension as he positioned himself defensively before Seth.
“Deal with that cur,” Lord Holmwood ordered, gesturing toward Rufus.
As if the hound had heard the order and understood, he launched himself at Lord Holmwood. Another stepped in the way and struck out at the dog with a rock.
“Hands off him!” Seth thundered. He jumped forward, thinking only of Rufus and ending up with that rope around one of his wrists. Two of Lord Holmwood’s men closed in on him, and he whipped his body around wildly, refusing to be taken by them.
Rufus cowered back, narrowly managing to avoid being hit by the rock, but he didn’t let up. He growled madly as he retreated to stand beside Seth once again, undeterred in his loyalty.
Another presence entered the driveway just then. Seth looked toward the figure, certain for a second this had to be the constable that Lord Holmwood had mentioned, then he saw it was no constable at all, but a face he knew.
Luke had arrived upon a steed, a yard before the fence, when he suddenly halted. He must have been able to see Seth from his vantage point. He could plainly see the mob around him, but it did little to spur him into action. Instead, with a swift turn of his mount, Luke absconded, leaving Seth to his fate.
What in the…?
Seth’s stomach writhed in knots as he watched Luke leave. His mind worked fast as a wild idea occurred to him. Not for the first time was Luke turning and fleeing, saving his own skin, when he could have stayed and helped Seth.
It’s not possible…
“Bates!” Seth called to his butler who lingered at the threshold of the manor, wringing his hands, uncertain of what to do. “Bates, did you happen to see Helmsley’s carriage departing our grounds last evening?”
“Pardon?” Bates’ confusion was palpable.
Seth had to tug against the rope holding him back. He used it to swing the man who had captured him around, flinging him straight into another of the mob.
“Hold him back. He’s only one man!” Lord Holmwood ordered.
“Bates!?” Seth called to him again, but he could already see the butler shaking his head.
“I do not recall seeing Lord Baxter’s carriage depart. No.”
It was the only answer Seth needed. He released the rope from his wrist before anyone else could advance toward him and reached for the saddle on one of the steeds.
“Get him! Shoot him,” Lord Holmwood called. The man the size of a bull advanced with a small pistol outstretched in his hand. He fired before Seth could even think of dodging to the side.
The bullet ripped through his shoulder. Staggering back, Seth inhaled sharply, reaching for his collarbone as blood seeped through his fingers.
“Murder!” Bates’ voice cried, louder than Seth had ever heard his butler speak before. “You are a killer! Send for the constables. Send for them now. We have a killer!”
Yet, Seth was not dead. The bullet, just like with Shelby, had grazed him but had not landed squarely in his shoulder. Seth checked the wound, tugging at the fabric of his coat before tearing it down so he could examine the skin. A thin trickle of blood seeped down his arm. Seth stood tall and advanced forward again.
The man raised the pistol at point-blank range, but Rufus charged at him and latched his jaws across the man’s forearms. He cried out in pain as Seth tore the gun from his grasp and jumped into the saddle of a horse.
“Run away, boy!” he called, then turned the horse around and flicked the reins, galloping off the estate and following Luke asfast as he could, while the sound of Lord Holmwood’s furious cries and bumbled orders faded into the distance behind him.
“Luke? Luke, is it you?” Charity called into the darkness. She could hear someone scuffling. They were running back and forth, panting heavily, saying nothing at all. “What is happening out there?”
She thought of slamming her fists against the door again, demanding her freedom, but she knew by now it would be of little use. They were not going to let her out, not for anything.
“Why are you doing this?” she called to the mysterious presence on the other side of the door. “Why keep me here? What do you expect to gain from it?”
Yet, the man didn’t answer. Doubt crept in, blurring the identity of her captor—was it Luke or Monty? Or was it someone else entirely? Something in his gait and the lightness of the tread still hinted it was Luke to her.
Suddenly, there was the distinct sound of something being struck.
Is that a tinderbox? No, it can’t be. Some Vesta case, perhaps?
She shook her head, realizing it was likely something else altogether. Resting her back against the wall of the barn, shebreathed heavily, trying to swallow and bring some moisture to her mouth. She hadn’t drunk anything in a day and her parched lips and tongue were driving her mad, for they felt like sandpaper.
