Page 3 of Fatal By Design
She immediately saw why.
The man in the driver’s box was dead. His hat had toppled to the road, leaving his head bare and the sickly dark hole in the center of his forehead visible. Blood streamed from the wound.
“He’s been shot,” Greer gasped.
Audrey’s limbs began to tingle, and her ears to chime. The coach door was open, and pure dread filled her at what might await them inside.
“Travers, take a look,” Carrigan ordered, and guiltily, Audrey felt relief that the footman would be first to peer in. Travers showed no hesitation as he went. He then shook his head.
“Empty,” he announced.
Her breaths came faster. Yet again, she’d come upon a dead body. From previous unfortunate experience, she knew not to panic. Audrey stepped back and noticed three things right away. First, the brake on the coach had been engaged, meaning the driver had stopped his team before he’d been killed. Second, a flight of three steps sat had been unfolded and lowered for whoever had been traveling inside. And third, luggage was still secured in the rear rack.
“Someone has left without their possessions,” Audrey said, moving toward the open door with more ease now that Travers had assured them there was not another victim inside.
Audrey took the few steps up to investigate while Carrigan instructed Travers. He was to stay here with the coach and the deceased driver, and Carrigan would take the dowager duchess and Greer back to the manor so that he could fetch help. It was a good plan, but Audrey hesitated. Whatever had occurred here, it had been recent. She eyed the crystal hand knob on the open door. Who had descended from this coach, and under what circumstances?
Though she knew she might see a violent encounter, it was the only way to glean facts about what had happened. Audrey peeled off her glove and reached for the knob. She drew in a deep breath and opened her mind.
The empty coach before her dissolved, and a new reality spread out before her like the blooming of ink on paper. A commotion unraveled before her eyes as the energy the doorknob retained transformed into images only Audrey could see. Shock stiffened her arms and legs, and her fingers clutching the knob turned to stone. Two women—a lady and her maid—were being held at gunpoint, both recoiling with fear. Carrigan’s entreaties for Audrey to come away from the coach drowned beneath the gasps and yelps of distress from the two women. The sounds were muted and muffled, like vibrations through water, as most sounds in her visions were. So, too, were the commands from a masked man to hand over a ring. The lady screeched that she did not have it, shaking her head and breaking into sobs. As the retained energy in the crystal knob depleted and grew fainter, so did the images.
“Your Grace, please.” She felt a touch to her elbow. Audrey gasped as she released the knob and spun away from the interior of the coach. Carrigan and Greer, along with the footman, all stood there, staring at her with concern.
“What is it?” Greer asked at Audrey’s alarmed expression.
“I recognize the coach,” she lied, because she had to say something to account for conveying what she had just learned. What she had just seen.
For the lady being accosted had been as familiar to Audrey as her own reflection in the mirror.
“This is Lady Redding’s coach,” she said. “My sister…I think she has been abducted.”
ChapterTwo
“The two of you promised you’d be on your best behavior.”
Basil slowly turned from staring out at the passing countryside, to glare at Hugh in a way no typical valet would ever dare glare at their employer. Then again, Hugh had long since accepted the fact that Basil was not a typical gentleman’s valet. He was an incurable snob with exacting standards, dry wit, and a brassy attitude.
“I am not a petulant child,” Basil replied, sounding exactly like a petulant child. Hugh refrained from pointing that out.
“I expect you and Sir to get along and not give the servants at Greenbriar any reason to gossip about the two of you butting heads like a pair of stubborn rams.”
Basil sniffed. “I don’t know what you mean. We are getting along famously.”
Beside the valet, Sir slouched in his seat with his arms crossed and his legs splayed wide. Though he wore a bespoke suit of Neatham livery—buff breeches and waistcoat, topped by a green and buff coat trimmed with darker green braid—the boy had a long way to go before he carried himself like a lord’s “assistant”. Case in point: the slingshot Sir currently gripped loosely in one hand.
“I was only attempting to say,” Basil continued, “that it is critical that a servant’s facial bearing be passive.”
“Stop carping about my face, Baz, or I’ll give you a reason to carp about yours.” Sir brandished the slingshot that he’d been using all afternoon to take aim at squirrels and birds through the window.
“Your childish toy doesn’t threaten me,” Basil said.
“Your front teeth’ll be saying something different in a minute,” Sir grumbled.
Hugh smothered a snort of laughter. The boy was around twelve years of age, but coming from the poverty-stricken slums of Whitechapel, he’d needed to grow up faster than usual. Street smart and appropriately cautious, Sir had refused to give Hugh his name when he’d started running messages for him and bringing him tips on crimes Hugh might want to investigate. So, he’d taken to calling the boy Sir. It had stuck.
Of course, now he knew his Christian name—Davy Givens—but the boy preferred Sir, and Hugh had to admit he did as well.
“All right, all right, the pair of you, leave off,” Hugh said. “And Sir, put away that thing. You’ll not need it at Greenbriar.”
