PROLOGUE
The carriage wound its way through Twicham at an impossibly slow pace. Up and down it went, bobbing along the small country roads as the night crawled by. Charlotte shuffled closer to the window, sliding the first pane of glass past the second. She stuck her nose outside and breathed in deeply, thinking herself the most rotten girl in the world.
Fortunately, the postilion seemed unconcerned when he picked her up at the posting house. The drabness of her attire had done its job. Her brown skirt contrastedwith the blue of her traveling coat, she'd evenscuffed her boots against an oak tree trunk for good measure.
She drew back and looked at her reflection in the glass. Her dark, wavy hair fell in tendrils around her face, and she lookedrather wan in the absence of rouge. Her eyes seemed darker forher deception, but perhaps this was for the best.
Dressed as she was, no one would guess she was a lady of theton, let alone the daughter of a duke. But shewasthe daughter of a duke, and was bloody miserable for it too.
Oh, her father. Her poor, harrying father. She didn’t dare think of him. Who knew what he might do once he woke up to find her missing? He would undoubtedly have men scouring the duchy from dusk till dawn until they found her. With any luck, she would be on a boat by then and on her way to Italy, France, or Spain, or any other place that wasn’t England.
Because in England, she was Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, daughter of the Duke of Richmond; a spinster in the making at the tender age of three-and-twenty. She was three Seasons deep with nothing to show for it. And now she was set to marry a man she completely abhorred.
Really, they had forced her hand—but she still couldn’t bear to look at herself.
With a sigh, she pulled down the window screen and settled against the silk backing of the rear quarter. Her skull rolled against the headrest, and she closed her eyes. If it weren’t for the pinch of guilt below her heart, she might have succumbed to sleep.
But she couldn’t rest, not now, and certainly not when the most thunderous clap shot through the silence of the night.
Charlotte gasped as the coach jostled on the road. In an instant, the party was thrown into chaos. She leaned against the window, hoping to see who was about, but could hardly make anything out in the faint, violently swaying light of the carriage lantern. The horses reared, and the coach went with them. She heard a loudthudfrom outside, where no doubt the postilion had been unseated. And then came the whinnying—the terrible,desperatewhinnying of the horses.
“What’s happened? Hello?” she cried, but her supplications were no match for the neighing. That was, until there was silence because the horses had bolted off.
Charlotte knocked on the window, chewing viciously at her lips to keep her fear in check. She knew her plan had gone suspiciously well so far, that she had snuck awaytooeasily. Her mind raced as she looked out into the darkness, feeling like she was trapped in a coffin, waiting.
When no one stirred, she pounded against the box’s back panel, hoping to rouse the post-boy. Still, all was eerily quiet. Terror seized her, and her heart felt like it might leap from her throat.
“I’ve never asked for anything,” she prayed in a whisper and pressed her eyes shut, “But I am pleading with you now. Do not let me die here, Lord. Do not let me die, and I swear I shall never do anything so silly again, not for as long as I live.”
She opened an eye and then laughed nervously as nothing happened. No angels appeared, no fire and brimstone either. Only the night stretched out before her, interminable and calm.
Charlotte mustered all her courage and reached out for the door handle. “I cannot simply sit here,” she murmured shakily. “I cannot—” she continued, but she was cut off by the distinct sounds of a struggle outside. The postilion was on his feet. She could see his shadow in the lantern light.
But then another shadow appeared. And another beside that.
And they did not look like angels.
She heard shouting. They were arguing. She needed to hide, and she needed to hidefast. She looked around the box for anywhere she might stow herself away. She found herself crawling in the legroom, pressing up the bench, pressing againstanythingthat might open, but it was no use.
She had to flee. She couldn't wait for them to rob her, kill her, or worse. Her father deserved better. She grabbed her travel valise and reticule as quickly as she could, stealing nervous glances outside as the scuffle continued, and sat back up. She had to escape while the pathwas clear.
“On three,” she murmured breathlessly, “One, two—” and the door was opened.
But the path was not clear. It wasfarfrom clear, for a man stood before her, holding a gun.
He tutted three times over, each sound a funeral toll. Charlotte was unable to move. She could do nothing but stare up at him, her gaze fixed on the barrel of his flintlock, glinting in the moonlight. He had it leveled against her face so close she could lean forward and taste gunpowder.
“Do as you are told, and you will be free to go.”
His drawl was confident and deep, like smoke and velvet. There was a lilt to his words that sounded playful, and it only frightened her more. She couldn’t see his face behind the tall, black collar of his coat, and his eyes were shadowed by a tricorn hat. He was English, of that much she was sure, but he didn’t sound anything like the lords of her acquaintance.
From the corner of her eye, she looked for the postilion. As she feared, he was lying on the ground, subdued by the man she assumed was her assailant’s partner.
Charlotte nodded. It was the only thing she could do since her life was on the line. She was biting her lip so hard she had drawn blood. In her daze, she lapped at it, and could've swornshe saw a smile form in the man's eyes. He sighed and swung the gun at the box. Charlotte flinched back.
Wordlessly, he climbed in after her. There they sat, the daughter of a duke and a highwayman, like two lovers riding through Hyde Park in a phaeton. The other man stepped around the carriage to the back. It sounded like he pushed something off the vehicle as it bounced and swayed:the body of the post-boy,Charlotte thought, who she realized now had been shot.
“Don’t worry yourself overlong. You’ll be back on your way to your tryst in a minute, and can pretend none of this ever happened.”