“You have my utmost sympathy, Hugh.” Now was certainly not the time to tell Hugh of his own misadventures. “What is the physician’s report on the extent of your injuries?”
“A few bruised ribs. A nasty gash on the head. But nothing that won’t heal soon.”
“I don’t wish to make you relive the experience, but your father related your tale to me. Did Clover truly throw you? I never thought to see you unseated by a horse.”
Hugh shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping. The silence kept time with the rain falling outside the window, and James had no intention of breaking it. He recognized Hugh’s expression; it was the same look he had worn as a boy before he had confessed to sneaking a treat from the kitchen or going fishing in his Sunday best.
Hugh let out a long sigh before straightening his shoulders with grim resolve. “I cannot tell you the whole of it yet, Brenton, but I will tell you that my injury was no accident.”
James felt a sharp jolt of surprise. In his years as an agent, he had faced no shortage of scoundrels who wished him harm, but why would anyone set their sights on Hugh? He was no politician. He had no rivals, no enemies, and no talent for making them.
James leaned in. “Are you suggesting someone deliberately tried to harm you?”
“No, dash it all!” Hugh’s voice rose. “They meant to do much more than harm me. They meant to keep me from ever reaching London.”
A foreboding shiver ran up James’s spine. He went still. “Tell me what happened.”
Hugh took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, but please keep it to yourself. I told Kate a watered-down version of the story with a few . . . differences.” He shifted on the pillows, avoiding James’s eyes. “I saw no need to cause her concern.”
James nodded in understanding. He had often done the same with his mother and sister.
“I was riding Clover hard, anxious to return to town. I was only a few hours from London when there was a gunshot. I thought it was simply someone hunting game in the local forest until the bullet lodged in a tree, not more than a few inches from me.” He swallowed before continuing, pulling at a loose thread on the bedcover.
“I broke into a gallop, but the next shot hit the ground in front of Clover, and he spooked. I remember losing my seat and landing hard, but I must have blacked out because I woke up to Clover standing over me, nudging me awake.” Hugh grimaced. James held his questions.
“The agony in my chest and head was nearly unbearable, and I couldn’t for the life of me climb back up to ride. But fortune smiled on me because before long, a cart rumbled down the road. A farmer took pity on me and brought me here, Clover trailing behind. I know it sounds like I have taken leave of my senses—that I belong in Bedlam—but James, I swear. This was not an accident.” Sincerity was plain in his face. “Someone tried to kill me.”
James sifted through Hugh’s account, his mind already sorting through the possibilities. Hugh did not exaggerate; James had no reason to doubt him. “Could highwaymen beresponsible? They’ve grown more brazen on the roads outside London.”
“I had the same thought but dismissed it. No one robbed my person, and my saddlebags and coin purse were untouched. They also tend to give warning before firing a shot.” He drove his fist onto the mattress. “I haven’t the faintest notion who shot at me, but I am going to discover the truth as soon as I am out of this confounded bed.”
James wanted to fix this. “Perhaps I can begin making inquiries until you are on your feet again? I can—”
“No,” Hugh said quickly. “No. I am confessing my suspicions to you in case something untoward occurs, but I do not want to involve you in this. Surely it is a case of mistaken identity or a thief who fled when he thought he had killed me.”
“If that is truly what you wish,” James said, though he had no intention of letting the matter alone. He was already embroiled in one intrigue while on probation and risked Westmarch’s anger by involving himself in another, but he would be dashed if he was going to leave his closest friend without answers. He knew that helplessness too well.
“Well, you may look like death, but I am profoundly grateful you have escaped it yet again,” James said.
Hugh chuckled. “We have been most fortunate over the years that all of our scrapes did not result in more serious injuries. Remember when we took Kate to play pirates by the river and I slipped on the rock? I am lucky I did not split my head open.”
“Yes, and then once she saw you were not truly injured, Kate insisted on being the pirate captain since you were a poor choice and—how did she phrase it?—a ‘true captain would never have fallen.’”
“She was forever chasing adventure when we were children.”
“Indeed,” James remarked, his mind drifting to a dark alley in the rookeries and the scent of orange blossoms.
“Is she presently at home?” James inquired, keeping his voice even. “I ought to pay my compliments and see whether she has recovered from the ball last week.” He assumed Kate had not divulged her recent activities to her family, and the lack of concern on Hugh’s face told him he was correct.
“I believe she is.” Hugh pulled the bell cord. “She usually spends her mornings at home in the garden or the library, writing letters or reading.” When the footman appeared, Hugh relayed James’s request. “Fetch Lady Katherine, will you?”
The footman bowed. “Lady Katherine is not at home, my lord.”
Hugh’s brow furrowed and then cleared. “When she returns, would you inform her that I wish to speak with her immediately?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I am sorry, my friend,” Hugh said. “I can send round a note once she is at home.”
