“There, now.” The man’s grip tightened. “The wee ones made it into the carriage! There’s hope yet—she’s leading the beast away.”
“She’ll be killed for sure,” the woman replied.
“Not a chance. The lion’s just eaten?—”
Hurtheven glanced sharply at the man who’d spoken last—a tall, thin fellow in a billowing cloak.
“—There’s that in her favor.”
For a fraction of a moment, he did not fully grasp what he’d heard, though a strengthening fury within him went from a simmer to a fully rolling boil.
“Do you think we should go back out there, Jem?” This from a smaller man in a black cap. “Give it another go? Ain’t right leaving her out there alone.”
In three, swift strides, Hurtheven inserted himself between the two men. In the courtyard beyond, Mrs. Montrose held Fee’s parasol aloft. She was backing away from the carriage. The object of her focus was beyond his view.
“Heavens,” the woman with the towel breathed. “Just look at that awful thing.”
A large cat with a tawny coat prowled into the window’s frame.Lion.The word finally embodied meaning.
Alionwas loose in a courtyard with Mrs. Montrose and his godchildren.
He jostled the window’s inner shutter, capturing the beast’s attention and temporarily arresting its stalk. “What the devil is everyone doing just standing around? Who here”—he spoke over the banging shutter—“is responsible for that animal?”
The man in the cloak eyed him up and down. “Who is asking?”
He abandoned the shutter and grasped the man by the collar. “That is my coach. Those children are in my care. And,” he added without hesitating, “that woman is my wife.”
“He-he won’t hurt her,” the man stammered. “He’s just eaten a lamb.”
The beast lost interest in the window and glanced behind him. Hurtheven followed his gaze to the remains of a sheep, belly up, neck extended, eyes shocked and sightless. His fury burned hotter still.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Montrose scrambled up the woodpile stacked against the smithy. Immediately, she started chucking pieces of wood at the tree above the lion.
Hurtheven shoved the man against the shutter and pulled out a pistol. “If you won’t take care of that thing, I intend to do so.”
“Now just hold on a minute!” The smaller, black-capped fellow cut in. “The lion belongs to Lord Chandon. If we lose him, we’ll have to pay.”
Hurtheven kept one eye on the lion, ready to shoot through the glass, if needed, and the other on Montvale’s driver. “You had best come up with a plan. If he moves toward her, or the children, he’s dead.”
“Let me just think!” the cloaked man insisted.
“You’d better think fast.”
“We’d need ten people—or more—to lure him back toward the cage. And chairs. Multiple moving points will mesmerize the animal. If distracted, he won’t attack.”
“There’s a stack of broken furniture out back.” Hurtheven said. “Where is my coachman? Footman? Groom? For that matter, where are the inn’s postillions?”
“In the stable, I should think,” the innkeeper replied.
He’d barely been aware of the movement in the crowd behind him, but four wiry young men had already retrieved the damaged chairs.
“Got ‘em, gov!”
“We’ll help.”
“Bless me.” The aproned woman clasped her hands as if in prayer. “What can I do?”
“Wouldn’t have another lamb you’d be willing to sacrifice?” the capped man asked.
