Page 7 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous
If only she had time to send word to Henry! His steady presence and quick wit would be invaluable, not to mention his superior strength and knowledge of the world. But Venetia’s note had been clear—there was no time to lose. By the time she could reach Henry and explain the situation, Venetia might be halfway to Gretna Green or locked away in Lord Windermere’s estate, beyond all hope of rescue.
No, this task fell to her alone, at least initially. Later, perhaps, she could send word to Henry once she had ascertained Venetia’s whereabouts and the route they were taking. Henry could follow with a proper rescue party while Caroline kept watch over her friend.
The thought of seeing Henry again—of having to explain this mad scheme—sent a flutter through her chest that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he’d looked at her at the ball. Would he be furious with her recklessness? Impressed by her courage? Or simply relieved when she was safe?
She pushed such thoughts aside. There would be time to worry about Henry’s reaction once Venetia was safe.
Barely daring to breathe, Caroline tiptoed through the house and let herself out of the scullery, wondering, briefly, if she had finally gone too far. The shadowy garden seemed to whisper warnings, and every rustle of leaves sounded like her mother’s voice cautioning restraint, propriety, common sense.
But the thought of Venetia, trapped and desperate and terrified, strengthened her resolve beyond all doubt. Caroline squared her shoulders beneath the rough jacket, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and powerful in her disguise. The weight of the knife against her ankle, the snug binding across her chest, the unfamiliar freedom of breeches—all of it servedto remind her that she was no longer Miss Caroline Weston, sheltered daughter of Sir Frederick.
Tonight, she was someone else entirely. Someone brave enough to risk everything for friendship.
Chapter Four
“Where’s the littlevarmint? Did you see where he went?”
Less than an hour later, Caroline held her breath in the suffocating darkness, sweating in the wooden trunk that had become both her refuge and her prison the moment she realized the coachman had discovered he had a stowaway. The rough wood pressed against her spine, and the musty smell of old leather and travel dust filled her nostrils.
“Have you looked there? In the trunk?”
She heard their heavy tread as they approached, both of them scrambling from the box up front where the coachman had been about to whip the horses into movement, to the rear where their passengers’ luggage was stored. Their boots rang ominously against the wooden footboard.
The carriage was well sprung, and it swayed gently with their movement. No doubt Venetia was ensconced within the silk-lined interior, quailing with dread and wondering what was happening above her head—wondering if the strange sounds meant rescue or merely fresh disaster.
Wondering if she should flee if Caroline failed in the defiant act of bravery she’d so confidently assured her friend would save her from the fate that poor Venetia railed so desperately against.
Caroline hoped with every fiber of her being that she would.
She hoped Venetia would see that all was lost and simply throw open the carriage door and flee through the muddy streetsof this little village where they’d stopped to change horses. If she could reach the woods beyond, she might find sanctuary until Caroline could find her. Surely Venetia would know it was her best—perhaps her only—means of escape, and that Caroline would move heaven and earth to find her as soon as she could.
To remain within the carriage would mean all was completely lost. Her future would no longer be hers to determine.
Trying desperately to steady her ragged breathing, Caroline pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle any sound. It was a terrible mistake. She gagged on her own knuckles, gasped for air, and—obviously hearing the telltale noise—the men stilled like hunting hounds catching a scent.
She heard a low, menacing chuckle and fully expected the lid to be thrown open and her disguise exposed to these rough men who smelled of ale and cruelty.
Thank the Lord she was dressed as a stable boy. Who knew what they’d do to a defenseless young woman discovered in such compromising circumstances? Like poor Venetia, who was just as defenseless and being taken advantage of this very moment in a deplorable manner that was completely condoned by society and orchestrated by her evil aunt.
But the lid wasn’t thrown open. Instead, she heard the ominous sounds of squeaking leather and straining metal as they adjusted the straps that bound her wooden prison to the carriage. Confusion gave way to horror as understanding dawned.
“That’ll teach ’im,” came the coachman’s gravelly voice, thick with malicious satisfaction. “Now, let’s whip up these horses and we’ll do a round of the village square, then pick up the poor old box that were set loose wiv all the commotion, eh? See what’s left of our little spy.”
Caroline’s blood turned to ice water in her veins. The coachman had no intention of giving the “stowaway stable lad”a reprieve. He intended to dash her bones onto the cobblestones so he could have the pleasure of dragging her broken body out before horsewhipping whatever remained. These were not merely rough men—they were sadists who would take genuine pleasure in her suffering.
“Run, Venetia!” she cried out silently, willing desperately to hear the sound of the carriage door opening, but all remained ominously silent below until the lurching forward of the carriage and the sickening shift of her wooden box indicated that the moment for escape had been lost.
Hers included, although perhaps if she could force the box to tumble before the carriage gained dangerous speed, she’d have a better chance of survival.
Twisting her cramped body within the confined space, making short, jerky movements that set her bruised ribs screaming, she tried to rock the trunk toward the edge of its precarious perch. But it was nearly impossible. Despite the coachman’s intention to lose the box over the side, the straps held firm, and the box was now shifting perilously from side to side with each turn of the wheels.
The best she could hope for now was for the straps to finally loosen, and a soft landing in mud once they’d left the village and cleared the murderous hard cobblestones.
And now, here it was—the moment of truth.
She sensed the weightlessness more by the sudden absence of the carriage’s rumbling vibration than by any physical sensation. Her stomach dropped as gravity claimed her, and she tensed every muscle for the impact that would either save or destroy her.
She could imagine the morbid glee of her tormentors, two men reeking of beer and casual violence who clearly enjoyed their cruel sport. Bullies both, but ever so obsequious when LordWindermere had given them their instructions. How different men could be when they thought themselves unobserved.
