Page 72 of Where the Heart Leads
Behind him, he heard the black carriage’s harness jingle, then the horses’ hooves started to clop, the carriage rolling along the street…
He froze, premonition snaking down his spine.
He hadn’t seen or heard anyone getting into or out of the carriage, no door shutting—why was it suddenly leaving?
He started to turn—in the same instant sensed the onrush of an assault. Whirling, he saw a cloaked figure rushing up the steps, a…baton?…in one hand.
His brain froze, unable to reconcile what he was seeing. The figure was short, and the cloak covered skirts. And there was a glint of gold beneath the hood, at eye level.
In that split second he recognized his assailant, registered that she’d come from the carriage that had pulled away. He glanced at the departing carriage—then saw, too late, the cosh she raised.
She hit him on the forehead.
Not all that hard, yet enough to make him blink and fall back a step—he half staggered and fetched up against the wall.
Absolutely stunned. Speechless, he stared at her.
She grabbed his coat—apparently mistakenly thinking she’d incapacitated him sufficiently that she needed to stop him falling down.
If he fell at all, it would be from sheer, utter disbelief.
What the devil was she doing?
He blinked again. She tucked the cosh away beneath her cloak, then peered into his face. Apparently reassured he was still compos mentis, she hissed, “Play along!”
What the hell was her script?
One hand still clenched in his coat, she reached out and hammered on his door.
He wondered if he should point out that his latchkey was in his hand, but decided against it. He assumed he was supposed to be incapacitated, so slumped against the wall, eyes half closed.
It wasn’t all that hard to summon a pained frown. He could feel a heated throb where she’d hit him; he suspected she’d left a bruise.
Penelope all but jigged with impatience. What was taking his damned man so long?
Then she heard footsteps; a second later, the door opened.
She looked at Barnaby. “Help me! Quickly!” She glanced behind her, down the empty street. “They might come back.”
The man frowned. “Who might—” Then he saw Barnaby slumped against the wall. “Oh, my goodness!”
“Exactly.” Penelope grabbed Barnaby’s arm and dragged it across her shoulders. Slipping her other arm around his waist, she hauled him away from the wall.
She staggered, and only just managed to right herself, and him, before toppling backward down the steps. Lord, he was heavy!
But she could hardly complain when he was doing exactly as she’d asked.
She weaved for an instant before his man—Mostyn, that was it—came to his startled senses and seized his semicomatose master from the other side.
“There now—gently.” Mostyn helped her shuffle Barnaby through the open door. “Oh, my heavens!” He stopped, staring at the red mark on Barnaby’s forehead.
Penelope cursed under her breath; the man was an old woman! “Shut the door and help me get him upstairs.”
She was no longer so certain she hadn’t truly injured him; he was leaning very heavily on her. She told herself she hadn’t swung the cosh all that hard, but anxiety started to churn in her stomach.
Mostyn rushed to close the door, then reappeared to take Barnaby’s other arm.
Barnaby moaned as they headed for the stairs—far too realistically for her peace of mind.
