“Mr. Thurston passed a shabbily dressed fellow on horseback riding along the road toward the village. The vicar saw him, too. He’s not putting up at the inn. And after that episode with the highwaymen, one can’t be too careful. Best we remain in our homes.”
Hetty climbed the stairs, her mind in a whirl. She walked around her bedchamber with prickles of unease on her nape. Could Guy’s life be in danger again?
She stripped off her gown and took her forest green wool habit from the clothespress. She must warn Guy. Although she detested defying her father when she’d promised never to do it again, desperate times required desperate measures. Her mare was too slow; she would have to ride The General.
Once on the road, The General lengthened his stride, and she was caught again by his grace and strength. He was far too good for her father’s Sunday rides. The sidesaddle was her one concession to propriety although she disliked it. The rain held off, and the horse covered the miles rapidly.
It was a revelation when The General trotted up the carriage drive at Rosecroft Hall. Workmen labored everywhere. They had begun the immense task of restoring the Hall to its former glory. Carpenters replaced rotting timber and stone masons worked to repair the stone walls while other workmen filled in potholes in the carriage drive. Gardeners moved over the landscape as they pruned, clipped hedges, and weeded, preparing the beds for spring. Hetty dismounted and handed the reins to a footman. She picked up the skirt of her habit and walked to the door where the huge entryway dwarfed the waiting butler.
“His lordship’s not here, Miss Cavendish,” Hammond said, in answer to her query. “He left a short time ago to ride to the village.”
“Is my godfather here?”
“He departed for London several days ago.”
“Thank you, Hammond. Please tell his lordship I called.”
She rode past the abandoned gatehouse, and once through the ornate wrought-iron gates, she reined in The General. It might have been one of the workers from a neighboring village that Mr. Thurston and the vicar had seen, for some employed up at the hall were new to the area. It would be sensible to go home before her father discovered her missing. She nudged The General’s flanks and headed in that direction. But as she approached the turnoff to Malforth Manor, some unexplainable instinct drew her on toward the village.
Hetty heard the rattle and jingle of a horse-drawn vehicle. Not wishing to meet with disapproval and fuel gossip, she rode into the shelter of the trees. She watched from her leafy hideaway as Mr. Gantry drove by in his curricle. She suspected he was on his way to visit her father. She hoped it would distract him for some time as the two liked to visit the farm and discuss livestock feed.
When she’d come within a few miles of the village, she pulled The General to a stop. A mere presentiment brought her here before she had time to consider her actions. Going off half-cocked, her father would say. And he would rightly be angry with her. A brisk, cool breeze had sprung up and rain clouds hovered overhead. She would turn back as soon as she came to the end of Sherradspark Wood. The fields and farmlands would offer few hiding places for highwaymen. By now, Guy would be in the village. Most likely enjoying a tankard of ale in the oak-beamed coachman’s parlor of the King’s Arms. He would laugh at her and accuse her of being fanciful. Well, she wouldn’t tell him.
When the road straightened out, she caught sight of a rider ahead. Guy, trotting his horse, safe and sound. Relief and embarrassment heated her face. He rode out of sight around another bend. She eased The General up, then turned his head for home before Guy saw her.
A pistol shot ricocheted through the quiet air.
Chapter Ten
The General rearedas panic tightened Hetty’s throat. Settling the horse, she urged him into a gallop. “Go boy!”
The General obliged. They rounded the bend in minutes. Hetty gasped. Guy had dismounted. A man shoved a pistol into Guy’s back and pushed him into the trees.
For a moment, she debated whether to ride for help or follow them into the forest. There was no time. When she’d reached the spot where Guy and the highwayman had disappeared, she dismounted and looped the reins over a bush. She fought her way through the bushes and trees, the brambles snagging her habit. Broken twigs and trampled undergrowth marked the path the men had taken. The trail crunched under her boots. Their voices reached her, and she crept forward.
“Who sent you?” Guy demanded.
“None of yer business. ’Ere will do fine.”
Hetty crouched and parted the leaves of a rhododendron. Her blood chilled. In a clearing, the assailant raised a pistol and took aim at Guy.
Hetty screamed.
The gunman swiveled to stare in her direction.
Guy charged him, toppling him to the ground. The man’s shot went wild, spraying bark from a tree, as they rolled down a slope, locked together.
Hetty emerged from her hiding place, her chest tight with fear. She hesitated, unsure what to do next. Her clammy hands clenched into fists as she danced around them. They gained their feet. Guy saw her, and his eyes widened. Distracted, he failed to block the man’s fist. It connected with his chin with a resounding thwack. He reeled back with a curse. “Get out of here, Hetty!” he yelled.
The gun lay close to Hetty’s feet, but she had no means of reloading it. She snatched up a rock, ready to use it.
Guy returned the favor with a punch to the man’s solar plexus.
“Oomph!” The rogue staggered but managed to keep his feet. They cursed and gasped for breath as they circled each other, trading blows.
The rogue pulled a knife from his boot and swiped at Guy, missing him by a whisker. The momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled and fell over a log. Guy followed and kicked him in the knee. He fell with a yelp of pain. Hetty had to bite her lip not to cheer.
The man scrambled to his feet and darted forward again, slashing the knife across Guy’s chest. Guy dodged, but the blade caught him, slicing through his waistcoat. Guy managed to grab the assailant’s wrist and twisted.
