The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(61)

“We’re almost to the ford. We’ll be all right there,” Harry shouted to the boy.

Will must have been afraid, but he never made a sound. Another turn. The mare’s lungs heaved like bellows. The riders behind them were growing closer, their hoofbeats louder. There! The mare raced down the track to the stream. Harry almost sighed in relief. Almost. Then he saw and realized there had never been any hope at all. On the stream’s far side, shadows shifted in the gloom. More men on horseback were waiting for him there.

They were herding him into a trap.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. He had maybe half a minute before the riders were upon them. He hauled on the reins, cutting the poor mare’s mouth. There was no help for it. The mare half reared, skidding to a stop. Harry pried Will’s hands from his waist. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and flung the crying child to the ground.

“Hide. Now!” Harry shook his head as the boy sobbed a protest. “There isn’t time for that. You have to stay hidden—no matter what they do. Go back to Dick, tell him to get Bennet Granville. Now run!”

Harry kicked the mare and drew his knife. He didn’t look back to see whether Will had done as instructed. If he could draw the attackers far enough away from Will, maybe they wouldn’t bother going back for one small boy. He charged full gallop into the stream. Harry felt a grin stretch his lips just before the mare slammed into the first horse.

He was surrounded by plunging horses and foaming water. The man nearest raised his arm, and Harry drove his knife into the exposed armpit. The man didn’t even groan when he fell into the stream. Around him, the horses whinnied and the men shouted. Hands grabbed for him and Harry swung his knife viciously. Desperately. Another man fell into the stream, screaming. Then they pulled him from his horse. Someone caught his knife hand. Harry closed his right hand, the one with the missing finger—into a fist and hammered at any flesh near enough to hit. But there were many of them and only one of him, and they were raining down a storm of kicks and blows.

In the end, it was only a matter of time before he went under.

Chapter Fourteen

“Men do have their uses,” Lady Beatrice Renault said as if conceding a dubious point of debate, “but giving advice on affaires de coeur is not one of them.” She raised the dish of tea to her lips and took a small sip.

George repressed a sigh. She’d been in London over a week and up until this morning had successfully managed to avoid Aunt Beatrice. This was all Oscar’s fault. If he hadn’t been so careless as to leave a letter from Violet laying around, their Aunt Beatrice would never have found out about Harry and would never have felt compelled to come and lecture George on the proper way to conduct an affair. True, Oscar had placed the damning letter in the drawer of his desk, but any fool knew that would be the first place Aunt Beatrice would start browsing when the butler left her alone in the study when she’d come to call.

Definitely Oscar’s fault.

“They are much too sentimental, poor dears,” Aunt Beatrice continued. She bit into a piece of cake and then frowned down at it. “Is this a prune filling, Georgina? I’ve specifically told you that prunes do not agree with me.”

George glanced at the offending slice of cake. “I believe it is chocolate cream, but I can ring for a different pastry.”

Aunt Beatrice had invaded George’s London town house, settled into a gilt chair in her pretty blue and white sitting room, and all but demanded tea. George thought Cook had done an outstanding job, considering she’d had no notice of potential guests.

“Humph.” Lady Beatrice poked at the cake on her plate, disemboweling it. “It looks like prunes, but if you are quite sure.” She took another bite, masticating thoughtfully. “As a result, they are competent—barely—at running the government but a complete wash at domestic doings.”

George was at a loss for a second before remembering that her aunt had been discussing men before prunes. “Quite.”

Perhaps if she feigned an attack of the vapors… But knowing Aunt Beatrice, she’d probably throw cold water in her face until George admitted consciousness and then continue with her lecture. Best to sit it out.

“Now, contrary to what men will tell you,” her aunt continued, “an affair or two or more is good for a lady. Brings a certain mental alertness and, naturally, roses to the cheeks.”

Lady Beatrice touched her own cheek with one manicured fingernail. It was indeed rosy, but more from rouge than nature. It was also decorated by three black velvet patches: two stars and a crescent moon.

“The most important thing for a lady to remember is to be discreet.” Aunt Beatrice sipped her tea. “For instance, I have found that if one is engaged with two or more gentlemen over the same period of time, it is imperative they not find out about each other.”

Aunt Beatrice was the youngest of the Littleton sisters. Aunt Clara, who’d left George her fortune, had been the eldest, and George’s own mother, Sarah, the middle sister. The Littleton sisters had been considered beauties in their day, cutting a devastating swath through London society. All three sisters had married unhappily. Aunt Clara had wed an insanely religious man who had died young, leaving her childless but wealthy. Aunt Beatrice had married a much older man who had kept his wife constantly pregnant while he lived. Tragically, all her babies had died in miscarriages or stillbirth.