“Not sure this ’ere bit o’ muslin will be much of a witness without ’er spectacles.”
“Spectacles?”
“There. On the ground. They flew off when she fell.”
The other man snorted and then Louise heard the disheartening sound of glass crunching. She opened her eyes and stared up into the face of her captor only to find a blurry image. “What do you want?”
If they meant to kill her, the least she could do was attempt to talk her way out of it.
“That depends.” The man who’d caught her was seated on a horse and was holding her much as one would an infant. “Who are ye?”
“The Earl of Grasmere’s daughter and the Earl of Scarsdale’s intended.” Hopefully instinct was on her side and they’d choose to use her for ransom instead of shooting her dead, in which case being honest could buy her some time.
“Better than gentry then,” the man who held her muttered. He raised his voice and told his friend, “We’ll take this one with us, Mitch, and use ’er to get all the money we want.”
“Ye sure about that?” Mitch asked from further away. Wood creaked as if in defiance. The woman who sobbed began to beg for her life. Mitch muttered a curse. A hard slap followed. Moments passed with added silence before Mitch asked, “Doesn’t it strike ye as odd that she’d use this sort of carriage if what she says is true?”
There was a pause, and then Louise felt fingers pressing down on her throat. “If ye’re lying, I’ll snap ye like a twig.”
Louise struggled for breath and choked. Her assailant released the pressure and muttered a curse. “Check that satchel over there. I think it’s ’ers.”
A long pause followed and then Mitch said, “We might get some decent coin if we sell these items. They’re quality. Loads better than what I was able to scrounge together from the other lot. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen underthings this fine before.” He grinned while Louise wished she was able to see him well enough to glare at him properly. “Looks like ye might be onto somethin’ with this idea of yers, Oswald. She could be the golden goose we’ve been hopin’ for.”
“All right,” Oswald said. “Let’s grab the horses then so we can be off before we get caught.”
Louise said nothing. Although it was tempting to point out the flaws in their plan - the fact that they’d never survive meeting Grasmere, or that there was every chance he’d decide to cut his losses and leave her to her fate after all she’d done - she kept quiet for the sake of survival. Tomorrow, Hannah would realize Louise had never reached Dover. She would alert the authorities and, by some miracle, find Louise before it was too late.
It was the best she could hope for at the moment.
Marcus spotted the overturned carriage as soon as he rounded the corner. The weather had cleared leaving cloudy skies and puddles behind as evidence of the recent rainfall. His clothes had been soaked through but were now only slightly damp after drying in the open air.
A queasy shiver snaked through Marcus. He shook it off and dismounted for a closer inspection. No cause for concern just yet. Not until there was reason for him to believe this particular carriage was the same one Louise had been travelling on. Accidents happened on occasion and this one could have occurred days ago.
Grabbing the reins, he approached the overturned vehicle. His throat tightened when he looked inside and noted the splintered wood along with some traces of blood. Forcing down his rising panic, he made a note of the contents. Nothing in here looked like it might have belonged to Louise. There was no reticule, no fancy bonnet or Jane Austen novel littering the interior.
A shout drew Marcus back from the scene. He glanced in the direction from whence the sound had come and spotted two riders on the approach.
“Who are you?” one of them, the younger of the two, inquired once they were within speaking distance.
“Mr. Berkly,” Marcus informed him. “I’m looking for the Earl of Grasmere’s daughter. She departed from London earlier today.”
The two men reached the spot where Marcus stood and dismounted. “I’m Mr. Andrews,” the younger man said. “Constable in these parts. And this here is Mr. Thatcher, the local magistrate. We’ve come to investigate now that the victims of this ordeal have been brought to town.”
“Victims?” Marcus asked, his grip on the reins tightening.
Mr. Thatcher nodded. “Looks like a robbery. The coachman was shot – killed in cold blood from the looks of it. One male passenger’s leg was twisted and broken beneath him while an older couple was knocked unconscious. One unfortunate woman appears to have broken her neck on impact while another can’t seem to stop crying. Pretty horrific, to be honest. Not very pleasant for the young lad who found them.”
Marcus’ heart thumped hard against his chest. “How many victims were there. In total?”
“Seven, including the coachman.”
“There should have been eight,” Marcus said while clinging to that single fact. “The carriage I’m seeking was full to capacity, so there should have been eight.”
“This woman you’re trying to find,” Mr. Andrews said. “If you describe her to us we can tell you if we’ve seen her.”
Marcus stared back at him. “She’s twenty years old, about this tall, andwith dark brown hair.” He tried to think of something singularly unique to her in appearance, but couldn’t come up with anything useful, so he just added, “Her eyes are brown too. Like chocolate. And she would have been wearing spectacles.”
Mr. Andrews and Mr. Thatcher shared a look.
