An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“It’s along the fence a little way.”

“We didn’t pass a fence.”

Dawlish frowned and surveyed the woods through which he’d come. “It’s that way—and around to the left, I think.” He scratched his head. “Or is it the right?”

“Why don’t you just show Mr Lester the way?”

Harry turned at Lucinda’s words. She had plucked some blooms and started to plait them. He frowned. “I’ll find the stile. Dawlish will stay here with you.”

Lucinda snorted. “Nonsense! You’ll take twice as long.” She picked a cornflower from her lap, then tilted her face to look up at him, one brow arching. “The sooner you get there, the sooner you’ll be back.”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. Joliffe might be behind bars but his protective instincts still ran strong. “No. I’ll—”

“Don’t be absurd! I’m perfectly capable of sitting on a rock in the sunshine for a few minutes alone.” Lucinda lifted both arms to gesture about her. “What do you imagine could happen in such a sylvan setting?”

Harry glared, briefly, aware she would very likely be perfectly safe. Hands on hips, he scanned the surrounding trees. There was open space all around her; no one could creep up and surprise her. She was a mature and sensible woman; she would scream if anything untoward occurred. And they were all close enough to hear.

And the sooner he met with Salter’s messenger, the sooner he could concentrate on her, on them, on their future.

“Very well.” His expression hard, he pointed a finger at her. “But stay there and don’t move!”

Her answering smile was fondly condescending.

Harry turned and strode quickly across the field; the damned woman’s confidence in herself was catching.

Like many countrymen, Dawlish could retrace his steps to anywhere but could never describe the way. He took the lead; within a matter of minutes, they found the fence line. They followed it to a small clearing in which stood the stile—surrounded by a small army of people.

Harry halted. “What the devil…?”

Salter pushed through the crowd. Harry caught sight of Mabberley and three representatives of Bow Street among a motley crew of ostlers, grooms and stablelads, link-boys, jarveys, street urchins,

sweepers—basically any likely looking scruffs to be found on the streets of London. Obviously Salter’s “people”.

Then Salter stood before him, his face decidedly grim. “We got the warrant but when we went to serve it, Joliffe and his crew had done a bunk.”

Harry stiffened. “I thought you were watching them?”

“We were.” Salter’s expression grew bleaker. “But someone must have tripped up somewhere—we found our two watchers coshed over the head this morning—and no sign of our pigeons anywhere.”

Harry’s mind raced; chill fingers clutched his gut. “Have they taken the coach?”

“Yep,” came from one of the ostlers. “Seems like they left ’bout ten—just afore the captain here came with his bill.”

Mr Mabberly stepped forward. “We thought we should warn you to keep an especially close eye on Mrs Babbacombe—until we can get this villain behind bars.”

Harry barely heard him. His expression had blanked. “Oh, my God!”

He whirled and raced back the way he’d come, Dawlish on his heels. The rest, galvanised by Harry’s fear, followed.

Harry broke from the trees and scanned the field—then came to a skidding halt.

Before him the meadow grasses swayed in the breeze. All was peaceful and serene, the field luxuriating in the heat. The sun beat down on the rock in its centre—now empty.

Harry stared. Then he strode forward, his expression like flint. A short chain of blue cornflowers had been left on the rock—laid down gently, not flung or mauled.

Breathing rapidly, Harry, hands on hips, lifted his head and looked about. “Lucinda?”

His call faded into the trees—no one answered.