Page 8 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous
But now she was free of them all—if she could survive what came next.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs and sent stars exploding behind her closed eyelids. But miraculously, she hadn’t broken her neck. She’d been badly jolted, every bone in her body singing with pain, but thank goodness for soft young bones and the mercy of muddy ground.
And for the fact she was wearing breeches and a jacket, her hair still bound securely inside the old cap. At least she still had that protection—the disguise that might yet save her life. For if she had any hope of surviving, much less saving Venetia, she could not risk being exposed as a woman to any stranger who might happen upon her.
“Whoa there! Stop!”
Caroline, who had been about to emerge from the splintered remains of the box, now kept herself huddled in the wreckage and prayed fervently that the newcomer’s sharp command related to something—anything—other than her predicament.
She forced herself to remain hidden, scarcely daring to breathe, waiting until all was silent and the coast was clear before she dared venture out. She was winded and shaken, her entire body a symphony of aches and pains, but she didn’t think she’d suffered any permanent damage. She just needed to extract herself from this predicament before Venetia’s sadistic coachman completed his circuit of the village square and returned to collect his victim for a proper horsewhipping.
“Barnaby! What do we have here?”
Caroline heard the distinctive sound of a gentleman’s boot against splintered wood, followed by the jingle of a horse’s bridle. She could also detect the approaching sound of wheels on the road—another carriage, perhaps, though the cultured tonesof the speaker suggested he was either mounted or traveling on foot, unlikely though that seemed given his obvious breeding.
Yes, the voice was educated, refined. Surely a gentleman would be more merciful than common ruffians?
Three heartbeats. Two. One…
With a burst of desperate energy borne of pure survival instinct, Caroline launched herself from the wreckage, scrambled upright on unsteady legs, and took off across the muddy field like a hare bolting from hounds.
She expected whoever had discovered the box would simply let her go. What possible interest could a gentleman have in pursuing a bedraggled street urchin, for that was surely how she appeared in the darkness?
But she heard the commanding shout following her through the night air: “Get the little rascal!”
There was some good-natured laughter from his companion. So there were two of them, and they seemed to be treating this as sport rather than serious pursuit. Caroline’s heart lifted slightly. If they were simply wealthy young men seeking amusement in this dull rural hamlet, they might be content to chase her briefly before losing interest.
That hope sustained her as she struck out determinedly across the plowed fields, her boots squelching in the soft earth.
If they were drunk or merely playing at pursuit, they’d not catch her. They’d not be inclined to muddy their expensive boots, much less their fancy pantaloons, she thought with growing confidence—perhaps too much confidence, for it made her careless, slowing her desperate stride just enough to prove fatal.
The next moment, she was sent flying by a tackle from one of the men, landing face-down in the cold mud with enough force to drive every bit of air from her lungs. Before she could recover, rough hands hauled her upright, and her wrists were pinionedbehind her back with unnecessary force before she was marched back to where her captor’s companion lounged with deceptive casualness against his horse.
“Boy in a box!” her attacker chuckled. “What shall we do with our mysterious foundling?”
“Let him go, naturally.” The voice of the other carried an edge of impatience, as if this entire episode was an unwelcome distraction. “Come, Barnaby. We’re late as it is.”
“Let him go? He’s obviously up to no good, Ashworth. Boys don’t hide in boxes unless they’re running from something—or someone.”
Caroline’s heart nearly stopped. Barnaby?…And Henry?
“How do we know that?” The gentleman who wasn’t Barnaby—though surely he wasn’t her Henry, either—seemed more interested in contemplating the moon than becoming involved in her predicament, for his face was turned skyward, revealing only a shadowed silhouette of classical features above a pristine white cravat. “He might have been stuffed in that box by someone else entirely—someone attempting to hide their own crime.”
“Hey there, boy,” he now said, “are you injured? Come now, Barnaby, loosen your grip on the lad. Poor fellow looks frightened half to death.” There was a pause filled with genuine concern. “Are you hurt?”
Caroline might have nodded in response—perhaps she did—except that every coherent thought fled from her mind the instant the young man lowered his gaze from his celestial contemplation to focus on her upturned face.
She could scarcely believe it. But there was no mistaking those kind eyes, even though darkness all but swallowed him up.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly parched, and began to cough uncontrollably. The shock of seeing Henry here, of allplaces, combined with her recent ordeal, seemed to steal every bit of moisture from her mouth.
“Took quite a tumble, did you?” Henry’s voice was warm with sympathy. “Barnaby won’t harm you, lad. Come now, Barnaby, give the boy something to settle his nerves. He’s had enough excitement for one evening.”
“Give a street urchin my finest brandy?” Barnaby’s tone dripped with disdain. “I think not, Ashworth.”
“Consider it medicinal,” Henry replied firmly, “and an act of Christian charity, of which there is far too little in this world.”
The kinder of the two men—her dear, wonderful Henry—reached for the silver flask at his waist and extended it toward Caroline.
