Chapter Thirteen
Persephone knew it was madness to set off on her own in the shining grey light of dawn, but she was physically incapable of waiting a single moment longer. Conall had already saved her life and she intended to save his right back. It was only fair, after all.
Never mind the terror clawing at her throat that she might already be too late.
Fairweather would think he had the upper hand. The pity of it was that he was right. Still, she had a few surprises of her own. For one, he had abducted Conall, even if Persephone was smaller and easier to grab, because he assumed that she would crumple, that she would do anything to save him. And she would. But she was made of sterner stuff than that. She had a brain. More, she had the Cinderella Society at her back. He would never see them as a threat. It would not occur to him that an earl’s daughter might come as armed as any earl. Another advantage, surely.
She ducked into the stable for a horse, careful not to wake any of the stableboys. Hay tickled her nose. “Shh,” she murmured to the nearest horse as she tossed a saddle over his back. He snorted sleepily. “We’re going to be brave.”
She didn’t feel brave. Not now that she was alone on horseback in the thick shadows, closing in on a murderer. She really was mad to think she could do this. But she had to try. She had thought Conall leaving Little Barrow for his real life without her would be difficult. She would take being left behind any day over him being injured. Or worse.
She loved him. It was that simple and useless to deny it, alone on horseback with the reins shaking in her hands.
The sky burned pink and orange on the horizon, staining the sky. Birds sang in the hedgerows and burst into the air when she passed by, cutting across the estate’s extensive lawns. The horse hooves left a clear track through the glittering dewy grass. The statues of the Avenue glowed in the quietly, slowly, building light.
She spotted Lord Fairweather, keeping to the shadows at the other end of the Avenue. He thought he was well hidden, and he might have been for someone who had not spent as many hours as she had studying the marbles. Meg had sketched each one ten times over. The duke held picnic teas here for Persephone’s birthday. Tamsin challenged them all to foot races over the grass. Persephone knew perfectly well she was looking at the shape of a man, not another statue or an odd bush. And as the light changed yet again, it caught on his gold buttons. As well as the weapon in his hand.
She needed a new plan.
One which preferably did not involve being shot with a pistol.
She hesitated behind the sheltering trunks. She had hoped that shooting an unarmed woman would give him pause. Apparently not.
Blast and damn.
Nothing for it. She was going to have brazen through. If he was already armed, there was no telling what he might do to footmen coming over the lawns. They could be shot before they even knew the danger. She edged closer, finding a spot that offered some protection with both trees and a huge statue of Artemis, moon carved into her hair. She was the patron goddess of hunting and a protector of women, known for turning Acteon into a stag and letting his own dogs devour him as a punishment for spying on her. Persephone hoped she might lend her a little luck.
She was fairly certain she was going to need it.
“Lord Fairweather,” she called, wincing as her voice carried clear as a bell. Birds fluttered off of branches, wings snapping a scolding.
Fairweather turned in her direction, pistol swinging. “Lady Persephone. So good of you to come.”
She hoped he shot his own foot clear off.
“There’s been a change of plans,” she said.
There was a pause, a huff of stunned laughter. “I think not.”
“Indeed, as I have no wish to be shot.”
“I assure you,” he said, stepping closer. She could see him peering through the greenery, trying to pinpoint her exact location. “This is merely for my own protection.”
“And for my own protection, I have left another letter written by Henry hidden away.”
He saw the fury contort his face, even from a distance. “You’re bluffing.”
“Certainly not,” she said with a crisp authority she was far from feeling. She tried to imagine what Queen Boudica might have done in her place. How Cleopatra might have argued her way to safety. But her palms were sweaty, and her mouth was dry. At least she sounded calm. “Should my return to the house be delayed or something untoward happen to me, I have left instructions for the letter to be read. In public. And then printed in the London Times.”
He swore under his breath. “Damned interfering gel.”
“Just so. I have a proposal.” Her horse snorted and she nudged him back behind a more substantial tree, keeping to his left side as Priya had advised. There was less chance of him spotting her through the foliage. And shooting her. “You will tell me where you are holding Lord Northwyck and I will leave this letter for you. We will go our separate ways.”
“What’s to stop you from blabbing after you get your way?”
“Nothing at all, I suppose.” Her voice cracked slightly. “But your choice is a possible accusation later or a definite accusation very much sooner. Say, within the hour.”
He cursed again. “Then I suppose we have a deal, my lady. It seems I may have taken the wrong person captive.”