The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(26)

William leaned back against the squabs and closed his eyes. Three days in four spent travelling gave new appreciation for the Marchioness of Exeter’s complaints about coach travel. Three days of wincing over bone-jarring stretches of roads, roads that made an excellent case for Mr. McAdam’s signature coating. Three days of travel interspersed with interminable waits at inns, before the longer break afforded by nights in Bristol and Oxford. Three days which, save for his valet, he’d passed almost alone, which meant hours spent thinking, planning, dreaming …

A myriad of images flicked through his mind. Road improvements. Pasture improvements. Blue hills. Hampton Hall. Sunny skies. A golden head. Blue eyes. Perfect pout. Candid tongue.

Amusement tugged the corners of his mouth. The images continued, chased by half-formed prayers.

A golden head. Hartwell Abbey. A darker head. A sleepless night. A crying infant …

He shifted position, working to get comfortable. What should he do about the child? Society, like Pamela’s parents, seemed to suppose it had died at birth. His staff were paid enough not to talk, but was keeping such a secret wise? Surely acknowledging her birth would only expose her to scurrilous whispers all her days. But if he did not, what would happen? The Abbey might have its share of ghosts, but a living child shouldn’t be one of them. Yet giving her into the care of others seemed heartless, and to give an innocent life into the care of Pamela’s parents would be cruel. What should he do?

Heavenly Father?

The carriage jerked. His eyes flew open. The carriage jolted again before slowing. Jensen wore a frown as somber as his tailored coat.

“What’s happened?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

A horse whinnied, followed by a second horse cry. His stomach clenched. Something was not right. “What—?”

The carriage suddenly swayed, and he grasped the leather strap, clinging tight as the horses suddenly took off at speed. Barrack, such an improvement on Rogerson, the ne’er-do-well coachman of his parents’ time, never allowed such confusion.

Jensen muttered something, his face drawn in the carriage’s dim lamplight.

“What did you say?”

“I’m not sure if Barrack is still driving, sir.”

“You think him indisposed?”

“I think it important to check.”

“Sit down. I’ll look.”

The carriage was careening wildly, forcing William to brace against the floor as he lowered the window sash. “Barrack!”

The wind stole his words away.

“Barrack!”

Through the darkness he could just make out the shapes of the fleeing horses, their sounds of fright cutting a fresh strain of fear through him. A tug on his coat and he was back inside, Jensen’s frown more pronounced than ever. “Sir, you should be more careful.”

“We have to stop them.”

“Barrack?”

“No answer.”

Jensen hissed a long sigh. “The horses know where to go.”

True. The team picked up in Towcester was one they’d used before, but that was small comfort, especially if his coachman were ill.

“We need—”

The coach slowed, then drew to a standstill. William flung open the door and descended, hurrying to the front. “Barrack?”

Horror curdled inside. “Good God!”

He scrambled up alongside his bleeding coachman, pulled off his neckcloth, wadding it to press against Barrack’s forehead to staunch the flow. “What happened?”

Barrack muttered something incomprehensible, his posture slumping until his head rested heavily against William’s shoulder. William looked about him. Fragments of rock lay on the coachman’s seat, remnants of which were embedded in the side of Barrack’s skull. A shiver dashed up his spine. Who could do something so despicable?

“Jensen!”

“Right here, sir.”

“Give me another neckcloth. He’s bleeding badly.”

In answer, Jensen stripped his off and handed it over. William tossed away his bloodied one and pressed the new cloth firmly to the gaping wound.

“He needs a doctor.”

“Ashton is not far, Your Grace,” called the footman, who now held the lead horses.

“We need to go. Jensen, can you manage the reins?”

“Sir, I … I do not think that wise.”

He bit back a word, recalling his valet had never any great love for—or skill with—animals.

“Very well, I will. Here, help me get him down and inside. You’ll attend to him while I drive.”

“But sir, what if the attacker comes for you?”

Then God help them all.

“Here, hold his legs.” He gently maneuvered Barrack’s heavy form, waiting until Jensen held him securely, before leaping down to assist. “Lift him slowly, slowly …”

Eventually they managed to get him lying on the cushioned seat where William had been ensconced for hours. “There.” He heaved out a breath, rubbing his upper arms. “Keep up a steady pressure. I don’t care how many neckcloths are used.”

“Yes, sir.”

Returning to the coachman’s position, William picked up the reins and called for the footman to release the horses. “Go help Jensen!”