Two Lady Scoundrels and a Duke - Tessa Candle Page 0,2

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Chapter 3 Four Falling Turds

Katherine wiped her running nose on her sleeve and replaced the scarf that concealed her face. At least the snow had stopped, but it was getting colder as the darkness settled over the land. So far only peasants had passed, people she could as easily give some alms as rob. The last fingers of twilight withdrew and the meagre light of the crescent moon was all that remained to travel by. With no full moon to light their way, not many would persist in their journeys. Perhaps she should try again tomorrow.

The sound of hoofbeats and jingling tackle alerted her to an approaching rider. Katherine squinted and made out a dark splotch growing closer on the roadway. She almost felt sorry for him, riding on horseback in this cold. But she hardened her heart. If he had a full purse, he was fair game.

When he came into view, it did not take long to ascertain that he had money. His hat was askew and squashed, but of the first water, and he had a great cape of fur draped about him. Yet he rode without a saddle and, though the horse was only moving at a plodding pace, he wobbled in his seat.

He was talking to himself and as he drew nearer she heard him say, “Ruddy houshe party. Should have bloody well shtayed at home!” Then he continued saying things that, though she could hear them, sounded like gibberish.

She smiled. He must be drunk. ’Twas the season after all. Plenty drunk and plenty rich—an ideal target. A cloud passed over the moon. The moment was perfect for her attack. No time to lose her nerve. Her heart pounded and she swallowed hard as she wielded her pistols and stepped out into the road, yelling, “Stand and deliver!”

It lacked conviction and was muffled by her scarf. She winced, wishing she could laugh at herself for sounding so ridiculous, but she knew that any levity at such a moment would give her away entirely.

The horse seemed unimpressed, but obligingly stopped. The man opened his eyes wide and exclaimed in a slur, “Pernishus farthing-chishlers!” before falling off his horse in a dead faint.

Pernicious farthing-chiselers? An odd thing to say—he must be thoroughly foxed. Wait, had she shot him? She looked at her pistols and sniffed the air. No smoke. And anyway, she was quite certain they were not loaded. She shook her head and whispered, “Get a hold of yourself, Kat. Go fetch his purse and be off before he wakes up again!”

She proceeded carefully, not lowering her weapons, but realized as she drew near, that he was not well. His hat had fallen off to reveal a gash upon his head that had not come from merely sliding off a standing horse. Bloody hell. Just her luck. She could not leave him there to die on the snowy roadside. She simply could not. She fetched the sled from the brush and began to pull him onto it; the horse stared on, blasé.

An unnerving feeling crept over her as she heaved and pulled the dead weight. She leaned in to see if he was still breathing. He was, thank God, but his scent lingered disturbingly familiar in her nostrils. Why was her stomach fluttering? “Lord, you are ridiculous, Kat.”

Then the fine crescent of moon peeked out again from behind the clouds. It was not much light, but the silver glint reflected off the blanket of snow, and in the faint illumination she saw the man’s face: drawn, pallid, blood-caked, but unmistakable.

“Dear God, no.” She lurched back, pressing a hand to her still covered mouth. “No. This is not possible.” She cast about her for something, anything, in her environment to reassure her that she was not dreaming. Her eyes connected with the horse’s sanguine stare. He snorted and tossed his head, as if to say, “What did you expect? It’s almost solstice and there is a fairy moon. You were out on a mission of mischief, and mischief has found you.”

“You have a point, my long-legged friend.” And now she was talking to horses. But might she not be forgiven for going mad at a moment such as this? She noted that in addition to having no saddle, the horse’s tackle looked like it was fitted up for a vehicle. The man was the Duke of Foxleigh. Why was he riding a carriage horse with no saddle?

She walked back to the man to look again, to be certain.