Asquith, she remembered, kept a rifled flintlock in his carriage. That would have to do.
And, since she intended to borrow that beautiful stallion, she would not have to go too far out of her way. Asquith might never forgive her, but that couldn’t be helped.
One last time, she checked her reflection in the mirror. The debutante was gone, but the person who had done what sheneeded to do to survive was very much present. But there was something more in her reflection, too. A certainty of her power.
Certainty Neville’s love provided.
She would fuse those parts of herself together and would not let him down.
*
Neville’s head ached.His arms burned where they were bound, and the air around his face was humid with his own breath. The boards beneath him jostled.
Jostled?
Yes.Jostled. He must be in a carriage.
The carriage wheels ran over a bump, and the back of his head slammed against something hard, but slightly pliant.
Clearly, not a well-sprung carriage.
All he could see was darkness, but he sensed he was surrounded—left, right, overhead. He wiggled to the side, brushing his shoulder against the barrier to his right. He recognized the pungent scent of straw. Was he surrounded by hay bales?
Another uncomfortable thud.
Someone—Mark, most like, if that was the footman’s name—had made a coffin of bales and buried Neville at the center. But at least he was alive. If Mark—and, presumably Willard—had intended to kill him in London, he would be dead by now.
He cursed himself for not having anticipated Mark’s attack.
On the other hand, at least he was breathing. And he still had his wits.
He’d known something was terribly wrong when he’d come upon Mrs. Cartwright in the alley. Still, the attack by the footman Willard had installed in Neville’s home had caught Neville off-guard. In an instant, Neville was off his feet. He’dflailed as Mark’s rough arm caught him by the throat, but without breath, he hadn’t lasted long.
He stretched out the soreness that lingered in his neck.
That he was alive at all was a miracle.
Where was he being taken? To the infamous lodge, perhaps? If so, what did Willard have planned? Would he have any chance of escape?
The harder he tried to think, the more forceful the pounding in his head. He gave himself up to what felt like hours of endless rocking. Then, the cart rumbled to a stop.
At the sound of muffled men’s voices, he called out as loudly as he was able. Though shrill to his own ears, he knew the sound had barely breached the gag, let alone the thick bales.
He jerked and squirmed, but the makeshift coffin held fast. Nothing he could do would penetrate the thick walls of straw.
Then, the cart was moving again.
Whatever his destination, they hadn’t arrived.
He cursed again, frustrated by helplessness. He’d no sense of direction. Nor of time. How long had he been gone? Was it still light outside? Or had darkness fallen?
Was his mother waiting for him? Or had she alerted others to his absence?
Did Millie know he’d been taken?
What would she do? His heart seized. Like as not, she’d set out on a foolish rescue. Foolish not because he didn’t think her capable but because everyone who had attempted to cross Willard so far had paid, including himself.
But, no.Millie would not do anything foolish. Why would she?