Charlotte shook her head. Why did Detective Pendridge have to shoot him? Did he wish to start a war with Preston? It was unwise. Preston knew too many people. The detective would lose.
He’d left her. He’d voluntarily left her. She looked back over her shoulder. He wasn’t there.
“Charlotte!” Preston barked. “What has come over you?”
“Nothing. I am surprised he did not shoot you in the heart. I think he could have.”
“Do you?” Preston sneered.
Charlotte marveled that someone so handsome could look so ugly. He wasn’t always so ruthless. Before his involvement in the Tory/Whig wars a few years back, he was more of a romantic rebel, at least, that was how she had seen him. He’d had noble ideals of stopping the Whigs from taking over Parliament and taking back from the men in power. Helping the poor and finding ways, legal or not, to feed them. She was all in—with about thirty others. But as the Whigs grew more powerful, his hatred of them grew with it, and he changed. He fell in with a band of thieves who robbed for the pleasures of being rich. They were mostly highwaymen who mercilessly robbed carriages belonging to rich, old duchesses. They worked in packs, like wolves strategically positioning themselves in the most beneficial places. Even after noblemen…and women began traveling with guardsmen, Preston’sassociatestook them down in the dark, from the left and the right, in front and behind. They were terrifying. Everyone knew of them. The Horsemen.
They’d become so notorious that Preston had to purchase a second house, Hayward House, just to meet with them. He did not want to be associated with nefarious Horsemen, for it would damage his image when he ran for the office of Mayor of Sutton next autumn.
Her belly sank. What if the investigator found out? What if he found out that she was one of forty-five petty thieves who worked for him?
“Who is he anyway?” Preston pushed. “Where did your father find him?”
Did she dare tell him that it was the man who had taken the ruby ring she had meant to give to him? That he was the one who caused her trouble yesterday morning, that he hopped onto her carriage and followed her home? She thought of the rest and her heart pounded.
“He was beaten and left for dead in Beddington.”
“Where you were yesterday morning. Did you bring him home, Charlotte?”
“No! Of course not! If he followed me, I was unaware!”
“I have no doubt about that,” he jeered, then shook his head. “All that beauty wasted on a simpleton.”
She closed her eyes and prayed silently for patience with him. She wanted to admonish him, but he was correct. She was going to get him into trouble by being so careless. First a constable. Now an investigator. “Preston, there is no need to be so abrasive. I—”
He closed his eyes and grasped his bloody leg. “Ah! I am in pain!”
“All right. There now,” she tried to console him with her hand on his arm. “Let us keep riding. We will arrive at Bristol Manor soon, and then you will feel better. ’Tis a good thing you kept your physician on. ’Tis not a serious wound.”
He slapped her hand away. “Not serious? Is that what you think? ’Tis all right that your friend shot me because ’tis not serious?”
“He is not my friend, and I did not say that ’twas all right for him—oh, for goodness’ sake, Preston, you are bring impossible!”
He looked aghast. Horrified that she could say such a thing. “Iam being impossible? I have an iron ball in my leg. Put there by a man you became breathless over. Do not deny it. I know you, Charlie.”
She could have felt sorry for him. But he called her Charlie.
“After you bring me home,” he continued, “you may hurry back to him.”
“Will Amanda tend to you, then?” Charlotte asked him with a charming smile, as if nothing were wrong in all the world. She’d perfected the smile, so much so that even Preston didn’t know it was feigned.
“Now that you mention it, she might.”
When had he become so cruel?
“Very well, Preston. I will give you your wish, but I will leave now. Get home on your own.”
She pulled left on her reins and turned her horse around. She kept riding away as Preston’s voice faded on the wind. She could imagine his look of stunned disbelief and she smiled. It felt good to shock him. It felt even better not to care if she did.
Investigator Michael Pendridge had nothing to do with it. He had nothing to do with her riding home—or that she was eager to get there. She was angry with Preston. She’d had just about enough of his underhanded dealings. With him, there was no honor among thieves. But more than that, his dealings with Amanda were the last she would take. She wondered if she should ride into the village first and free John deVille from his prison. She was certain poor John had only been trying to protect her from the stranger she was with. She hadn’t told Preston about John because he’d be angry at John for shooting someone so close in proximity to her. His answer would be to “let him rot”. Well, no, she would not let him rot.
She hoped the investigator hadn’t gone back to the mill. She couldn’t tell Pendridge she knew his attacker. He would ask her too many questions. And whatever he discovered, he would tell her father. She couldn’t risk it, so she had said nothing. John would forgive her…once she let him out of his jail.
When she reached the village, she wasted no time. She knew he’d been put in the mill. She wanted to get home before the investigator if possible. If he was out entertaining a woman, she likely had time.
