“Stop! I am the Duchess of Westvale, and I demand that you stop!”
The carriage came to a halt so suddenly that Georgia was thrown forward, wrenched from her grasp with the ferocity of the halt. The seat opposite her thudded into her stomach, driving the breath from her. The crown of her head hit the wood above the bench, and white light obliterated everything.
Her body fell limply to the floor.
“I see the lodge in the distance, Your Grace,” Thorne exclaimed over the beating hooves, “I would say we are three miles away as the crow flies, but longer by road.”
“Why?” Keaton demanded.
“The road bends to the south around the heath. The route through that is treacherous, badly maintained, and full of bogs and unexpected bodies of water. Many carriages have come off the road on this land and sunk without trace.”
“Go across the heath,” Keaton ordered.
“But, Your Grace...” the investigator began.
“The heath!” he roared.
Thorne relayed the order, instructing the driver to take care. Keaton felt the quality of the road change. The rumble of the carriage wheels deepened, and the ride became one of painful jolts and teeth-breaking clenching of the jaws. The carriage swayed from side to side as the route came across one of many sudden bends in the road.
“I'll be damned!” Thorne exclaimed, “I see fresh tracks on the road ahead. There's been rain here and there are wheel tracks coming out of a number of the puddles. They haven't had a chance to dry yet.”
“It is them,” he muttered.
“As you say, Your Grace.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, enduring the bruising conditions. Keaton thought of Georgia somewhere ahead, alone and vulnerable.
What was Edric’s plan here? An accident, perhaps? A carriage crashing on a dangerous road. It would absolve Edric of any responsibility and remove Georgia from his path to the Dukedom.
Will I be next? Are his inhibitions against harming Westvale too strong to raise a hand against me directly?
The answer was the attack that had led to his sight being lost. Edric had wanted his young nephew out of the way.
If they reached Georgia too late, Keaton would return to kill his uncle. There was not a shred of doubt about it in his mind. There was a yawning emptiness within him at the thought that he might in fact already be too late, outwitted by Edric. Somewhere deep within that emptiness, though, anger and the desire for revenge smoldered. It was an ember now, but it was flaring brighter and brighter.
He took away my sight. He claims my blindness makes me too weak to be Duke, but he took it away in the first place!
Suddenly, he felt a strong arm thrust across his chest.
“Stop!” Thorne was shouting.
The carriage slewed to one side, and Thorne's heavy form thudded into Keaton, crushing him but holding him in place as the vehicle came to a halt.
“Another carriage in the road,” Thorne said breathlessly, “unhitched from its horses and being pushed off the road. There is a sizable mere behind it. By heaven, he's pushing it in!”
Thorne hauled Keaton to his feet, and Keaton felt the door opening, felt the cool twilight air spilling in.
“Hold there! Stop what you're doing!” Thorne cried out.
Keaton leaped to the road, crouched there, trying to find anything with which to orient himself. The sound of wheels sluicing through mud and sodden grass came to him. Boots scraping through soil and stones, crunching. Grunts of effort. A man pushing. Keaton came out of his crouch as Thorne cursed.
“Your Grace, get down! Pistol!” Thorne roared, and Keaton dove. There came the crack of a pistol shot, and the air filled with the sharp tang of gunpowder.
Keaton's hands bore the brunt of his fall, absorbing his weight and then pushing him back up.
Another shot rang out, from behind Keaton this time.
Someone in front of him screamed once. Then thudded to the ground.
