CHAPTER1
A COACH CRASHES
December 1815, somewhere in Wiltshire, England
Tossed hard into the side of his traveling coach, Thomas awakened from his slumber with a start. His eyes rounded as his body was thrown toward the ceiling, his breath knocked out of him when his back slammed hard against the unyielding wood. If not for the velvet-covered squabs, he might have suffered more than a twisted arm and a slight cut to his forehead.
The equipage jerked to a halt on its left side, the window pressed against the bottom of a snow-covered ravine. Lumps of coal from the brazier on the floor of the coach scattered about the interior and landed on the curtains of the window. Embers continued to swirl about, leaving trails of orange and red light before they winked out of existence.
Smoke curled up from the puddled curtains. If the fabric caught fire, the thickly varnished wood surrounding the window would soon suffer the same fate.
For the moment he struggled to take a breath, Thomas, Duke of Pendleton, was sure he was experiencing a nightmare.
Is this suppose to be how I die?
The thought had him realizing he needed to move. To inhale deeply while there was still breathable air and make his escape.
Given the position of the coach, he thought to simply stand and push up on the door. There wasn’t enough space for him to straighten his body, though, and his hunched posture didn’t provide enough leverage for him to force open the door.
The latch refused to budge.
Is this suppose to be how I die?
Near panicked, he lay nearly upside down on one of the benches and kicked the door latch with a boot heel. The sound of splintering wood was accompanied by thewhooshof flames lighting the curtains.
Before he was completely free of the interior, his crushed top hat in one hand and his sprained arm tucked against his midsection, the fire had spread to the squabs.
Backing away from the equipage, his attention went to where his driver should be—and wasn’t.
“Fredericks!” he called out, panic nearly closing his throat. Or perhaps it was the cold air.
For a moment, he feared the driver was in the ravine and under the coach, but there was no sign of him. Repeated calls were met only by whinnies of complaint from the two horses still hitched to their yokes.
They were both in the ravine, fighting against their awkward-angled hitches. Moving to free them, Thomas struggled with the leather leads. When flames rose from where he had exited the coach, their orange and yellow fingers accenting an already brilliant sunset, the beasts panicked. Despite his attempt to restrain one of them—he was sure he could ride it if necessary—both ran off, their neighs and whinnies loud in the quiet cold.
Cursing, Thomas climbed up to the road and looked both ways. Given the time of year, he wasn’t surprised there were no signs of other travelers. There was something near the road about a hundred yards back, though. Something dark against the white snow.
Following the tracks left by the coach, Thomas found Frederick’s body at the edge of the road. From his position, it was apparent the driver had fallen from the coach. With no sign of breath coming from the prone man, nor any evidence of a pulse, Thomas realized Fredericks had probably suffered apoplexy.
Is this how he was suppose to die?
Retracing his steps back to the burning coach, Thomas soon understood what had happened.
With their driver having fallen from the bench, the horses spooked and ran too fast for the road conditions. The coach skidded on the icy surface and careened into the ditch.
A wave of heat from the fire had him stepping back.
Is this how I was supposed to die?
If only he hadn’t insisted they continue when they were stopped for a change of horses at the Old Bell at Warminster. The ancient coaching inn wouldn’t have had a room for him, though, and although he might have used his title to insist on accommodations, he had no desire to put the owners out of their beds on such a cold night. Not when he was sure Fredericks and the fresh horses could make it to his hunting lodge near Saltford.
Realizing he needed to find shelter or he would freeze to death, Thomas buried his hands into his greatcoat pockets and hurried down the road.
Is this how I’m suppose to die?
He had no idea how far the coach had made it after leaving the Old Bell—he had fallen asleep shortly after they resumed the trip—so he had no idea how far he was from his hunting lodge.
In the growing gloom of twilight, surely there would be lights on the horizon, especially if he was close to Bath. Or maybe not. The city was built into a depression. Perhaps the lights wouldn’t show.
