And Then She Fell(79)

Beneath her outward calm, she felt restless, discomfited. She felt almost itchy, her nerves abraded by the constant scrutiny that had surprisingly quickly escalated once the rest of the family had been informed of the threat against her life.

She hadn’t expected to feel quite so “under observation,” to the extent that the three hours she’d spent at a ball last night had ended feeling like time to be endured, rather than enjoyed. Even having James constantly by her side hadn’t alleviated the oppressive feeling.

“But until this damned villain is caught and hung by the heels,” she muttered, “it appears I’m going to have to put up with it.”

She reached the start of the tan track and wasn’t all that surprised to find no James waiting. Drawing rein, she leaned forward and patted Marie’s glossy neck. “We’re a trifle early, I fear.”

She and James had agreed to ride extra early, but, restless, she’d left home as soon as she’d been ready, and as yet there were few others abroad. She could see only two groups of riders, one threesome of rakish gentlemen, and two older gentlemen out for their morning constitutional. Both groups were already using the track; their members noted her escort and gave her a wide berth.

She shifted in her saddle; Marie pranced as the three rakish gentlemen set their mounts facing down the tan track, then swept past and on in a thunder of hooves. The mare loved to run and didn’t at all appreciate Henrietta holding her back.

“James will be here soon.” Henrietta gentled the mare, settling her. Along with Marie, she looked longingly down the track. “We’ll be able to run when he comes.”

Then again, she had two guards, and the track wasn’t that long . . . and other than the five riders, all of whom she recognized, there was no one else around.

The mare danced, jiggling her.

“Oh, all right.” Easing the reins, she swung Marie toward the start of the track and called over her shoulder, “I’m going down for one pass.”

Her guards quickly brought their horses up; when she sent Marie at an easy gallop down the tan, the grooms kept station just behind her.

They were galloping fluidly by the time they reached the end of the track. Laughing—feeling considerably better, freer, lighter of heart—Henrietta reined in and turned, bringing Marie around in a wide arc preparatory to riding back to the start of the track.

Looking up and ahead, she saw James emerging from the misty distance. She waved and called a halloo.

He spotted her, smiled, and raised a hand in salute.

Grinning, she leaned forward—

Crack!

James saw Henrietta jerk, then start to crumple a fraction before the sharp report of a pistol reached him. Shock hit him like a fist to the chest.

Digging in his heels, he sent his mount racing over the sward.

Fear sank icy talons around his heart and squeezed. . . .

Then he was hauling his gray in alongside the confused and skittish black mare. He was vaguely aware of the two grooms milling close, putting themselves, horses and bodies, between Henrietta and the thick bushes from where the shot must have come. But his focus, all his awareness, all his senses, were locked on Henrietta. She lay slumped forward, arms limply embracing the mare’s glossy neck. Blood was trickling down the side of her face, disappearing into the black hide.

She looked pale as death, but her back rose slightly and fell.

Throttling his panic, dropping his reins, he reached for her. It took a moment of juggling to free her from her sidesaddle, then he lifted her across and into his arms, settling her before him.

Cradling her close, he felt her chest expand and contract. Rhythmically and repeatedly. Carefully moving her head, he gently examined her wound, an ugly furrow above one ear, then he blew out a breath. Sucked in another as his reeling wits steadied. “She’s alive.” He glanced at the anxious grooms. “She’ll live. It’s only a bad graze.”

He looked down at her face. Pain and shock had knocked her unconscious, and she was losing copious amounts of blood, but she wasn’t going to die.

Relief swamped him; if he’d been standing, it would have brought him to his knees.

Awkwardly searching for, then folding, his handkerchief, he pressed it firmly to the angry wound, then glanced at the grooms. Meeting their worried gazes, he realized they were torn—should they try to catch the villain or stay and help with their mistress?

“I’ll take her straight home.” Lips tightening, he nodded at the bushes. “Take the mare, and see what you can find.”