Page 1 of The Scarred Duchess
PROLOGUE
July 1807, St Albans
He read the note again.
Look for the large rock on the left two miles after the coaching inn.
He cantered on, swivelling his head repeatedly from left to right and back again. It would not be the first time he had received inaccurate directions. Minutes later, he spotted the large stone ahead. A fallen tree lay in front of it.
“‘So far, so good. So much is done to good purpose,’” he recited aloud.My ancestor would be proud of my use of his phrase, even if in an ironic sense.
He took his time tying a rope around the log. The two missing fingers on his right hand made the task more difficult than it should have been. Once completed, he walked the log and his horse half a mile further. With a little difficulty, heplaced the timber so that a few feet protruded into the right edge of the road.That should do it.
He rode back to the stone, before dismounting and walking his horse deep into the treefall, where he secured the beast and removed a pistol and musket. He returned to a point ten feet from the road and, confirming his line of sight was clear, leant back against a tree and waited.
Twenty minutes later, a carriage announced itself. He knelt; his musket aimed high. He adjusted his grip to compensate for his injury.
When the carriage drove into his sight, he pulled the trigger. The blast was loud. Through the smoke, he saw the driver fall off his seat and disappear behind the transport.
He picked up his pistol and fired it at the ground beneath the horses. One reared, the other roared. They pulled against their bridles; the carriage violently yanked forward. High-pitched screams faded as the driverless carriage galloped away.Damnation.Must be ladies inside as well.He placed his weapons in his kit bag and pulled the quick knot that untied his horse.
A moment later, the expected—and welcome—crash filled the air, followed by wood tearing and splintering. He rode slowly towards it, and found what remained of the carriage resting on its side. A girl lay face up on the ground. Her head was tilted at an odd angle. Broken neck. He nudged her head with his boot. Dead. He climbed up the wreckage and peered inside. A young woman lay on her side, moaning. No one else was in the carriage.
His teeth clenched in anger, he inhaled and exhaled a few times. The carriage was to have carried his targets—the earl and the viscount. Instead, he had injured a lady and killed her companion. The woman coughed and rolled from her side to her back. Her blonde hair, matted with blood,covered most of her face. Shards of glass surrounded her head in a life-threatening tiara.
Turning backwards at the repetitive clopping of hoofbeats that signified another carriage, he quickly remounted and rode off. His stomach rumbled from hunger. He would eat at the Meryton coaching inn.
She seemed to be a beauty. Poor lass.
CHAPTER ONE
Longbourn,February 2, 1776
Thomas,
I regret to inform you that our father’s illness has progressed to a point non-plus. As recommended by his physician, we are preparing an extended stay for him in Bath.
As I work with our steward, economies of expenditures are taking place rapidly. All we Bennets are thus affected, some more than others.
The enclosed document is a certified copy of a lieutenant’s commission purchased for you. With the successful completion of your education at Oxford, the estate has, as promised, finalised its support.
I forward the best wishes from the Longbourn servants: Hodgeson, Cook, and those wishing to be remembered by you.
Lieutenant Bennet, how well that sounds!
Benedict Bennet
A lieutenancy? Alone in his chambers at Oxford, Thomas Bennet chuckled wryly; his brother did not miss an opportunity to remind him of the lack of value of a younger brother’s existence. Never mind that; he had grown accustomed to proving his worth and would not shy away from the need to do so again.
Five years later, Captain Bennet lay still behind the protruding root of a large maple he hoped was aiding in his concealment. He attempted to keep his heavy breaths silent. He did not want to be found; his life depended upon his remaining undiscovered. The sounds of nature all about him announced their presence with verve; he was the lone dissenter.
No one I know in England would recognise me now, he mused. His face had been dulled by American dirt and grime, all the better to blend into the surrounding woods of Johnstown, New York. He lay motionless, all but unrecognisable. The small world of the forest lived around him but was oblivious to him as an intruder, as he had joined them as one of their own.
The sight of blood was nothing new to him. As a captain in the King’s Royal Regiment reserve, he had experienced his fair share of battles and seen many men die. He had witnessed the rebels’ courage as they were being overrun and watched them fight with the savagery of animals. He had seen them sacrifice their very lives for their homesteads. The previous day’s disastrous defeat, including the capture of his armourer and batman, illustrated how the upstarts excelled atchanging from a defensive fighting position to attacking strategic assets.
As the sun set, he made his departure. He crept through the underbrush, keeping close to the trees for cover, and quietly made his way west, out of the enemy’s sight. He knew that if he could make it to the landing on Lake Oneida, he could rendezvous with his commander, Major Sir John Ross.
After three days on foot, moving from abandoned farmhouses to rickety lean-to trusses, the repetitive boom of artillery alerted him of an altercation. Realising he had nearly crawled into a flank position of three colonial scouts, he froze, hoping he had not drawn their attention. But the winds shifted, carrying the heavy air of spent saltpetre. Bennet choked as his lungs fought for clean air. Fully aware he had given up his position, he pulled his knife and readied to fight.
