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Rosalind clasped her hands together tightly as the chilling reality of Vickers’s description settled upon her. Mrs. Tucker was surely closer to Rosalind’s mother’s age than her own.

“Is she strong enough to withstand this ordeal?”

A worried line creased Vickers’s forehead. “She’s a small woman, Your Grace. Slightly built. But to the best of my knowledge, she is healthy.”

A vision of the dark crack she’d seen running down the wooden pier filled her mind. She had no way of knowing what part of the bridge had given way under Mrs. Tucker, but if any portion of it had collapsed under the weight of a small woman, what would occur if a larger, heavier man were to attempt to reach her?

The memory of Sebastian’s recent orders filled her mind, and Rosalind’s head began to pound. He had specifically requested strong men for Mrs. Tucker’s rescue. Nothing more than rudimentary arithmetic was needed for this equation. If the weight of a small woman had been sufficient to cause the bridge to break, there would not be a single man—Sebastian included—who was light enough to cross the rotting wood without more of it giving away.

Panic tightened her throat. She needed a horse. There was no time to wait for Vickers to get word to the stables or for her to change into a riding habit. If she was to catch Sebastian before any of the men set foot on that bridge, she needed to leave right away.

Hurrying to the door, she yanked it open.

The butler offered her a startled look and stepped forward. “May I assist you, Your Grace?”

A gust of cold air swirled around her ankles. She glanced outside. Tree limbs were shaking, and dark clouds were rolling in from the west. Another storm was coming.

“I must go after the duke,” she said.

“Are you sure that is wise, Your Grace?” Vickers’s expression of genuine concern made allowance for his unsolicited question.

“This has nothing to do with wisdom and everything to do with saving lives,” she said, relinquishing the door to him and stepping outside.

The breeze tugged at her hair and gown. At her left, one of the lanterns hanging at the side of the front doors shifted, scraping against the stone wall. Rosalind hesitated. Sebastian had not requested that any form of light be loaded into the carts. If the skies continued to darken or if the rescue went into the evening, they might be needed. Riding at a gallop would make carrying one difficult, but if she wrapped it in her skirts, she could probably manage.

“I am going for Belle,” she told Vickers. “If Wesley is in the stables, I shall be in the saddle in under three minutes. Please have one of these lanterns and a flint ready for me. I shall stop for them on my way.”

Vickers obediently reached for the lantern. Rosalind raised her hem a fraction and ran down the portico stairs. Barely pausing when she reached the gravel drive, she continued running all the way to the stables.

* * *

“Over there, Your Grace.” Galloping across the pasture at Sebastian’s side, Dawson pointed to the distant break in the hazel and blackberry bushes.

Sebastian nodded. Any moment now, he would be offered his first view of the bridge. Or what was left of it.

Bracing himself for the worst, he guided Tempest toward the gap in the hedgerow before reining him to a halt. Thunder rolled overhead and the horse tossed his head anxiously.

“Steady, boy.”

Sebastian gave his mount a reassuring pat before leaping from the saddle and running to the other side of the hedgerow.

The bridge was still standing. Near the center of the structure, a portion of the railing was missing and a large hole gaped menacingly on the decking. Sebastian’s stomach clenched. Mr. Greenwald had said that Mrs. Tucker had been clinging to a pole when David had seen her. Was it possible that she’d been unable to maintain her grip and had been washed away? With the current this strong, there was no telling how far downstream she would go or how long she might manage to stay afloat.

Dawson joined him. “Do you see her?”

A single raindrop landed on Sebastian’s cheek. Another roll of thunder followed. He crouched to view the bridge from underneath. A brief glance confirmed that the crack in the closest pier had widened. Given the volume of water and debris rushing downstream, it was a miracle it had not given way completely. His gaze followed the length of the bridge, focusing on the pier standing immediately below the hole on the deck. The flutter of fabric caught his eye. He shifted farther to his left, straining to identify the shadowy shape immediately below the deck.

“Help!” A faint voice reached him on the wind. “Please help me!”

“Did you hear that?” Sebastian asked.

One look at his head groom’s face told Sebastian that he hadn’t imagined the cry.

“Praise the heavens,” Dawson said, squatting with Sebastian to study the bridge from beneath. “Where is she?”

“The third pier over. Wedged up against the pier cap.”

Dawson’s gaze fixed on the distant figure, and his jaw tightened. “Any ideas, Your Grace?”