Page 120 of Thief of the Ton
“They’re coming, Samson,” she whispered, and the horse let out a low snort.
The lights disappeared as the carriage reached the dip in the road.
Two hundred paces…
She pulled her neckerchief up until it concealed the lower half of her face. Then she slipped her hand into the coat pocket, seeking reassurance from the solid shape within. As her fingers met the smooth wooden handle and the cold, hard metal barrel, her chest tightened with fear, and her heart pounded in her ears in unison with the approaching hoofbeats.
Then the lights appeared again on the road ahead.
Fifty paces…
Grasping the reins, she steered Samson into the center of the road, in the path of the carriage.
“Whoa there!” she roared.
A voice cried out from the carriage, and it drew to a halt about twenty paces away.
Biting her lip to stem the tremor in her arms, she drew out her father’s pistol and held it in the air.
“Stand!” she cried, lowering the pitch of her voice. “I demand you deliver your goods.”
“Why, you—” the driver began.
“Silence!” she interrupted. “Or I’ll shoot!” She gestured toward the driver with her pistol. “Drop the reins. Hands in the air where I can see them.”
He complied, and she steered Samson closer, stopping a few paces from the carriage door, where she could make out the outline of the Walton crest.
“Step out of the carriage!”
For a moment, the carriage remained still. Then, with a creak, the door opened and a tall, thin shape emerged. It turned toward her, and she caught sight of a white face, creased with age and bitter hatred.
“Lord Walton, I presume,” she said.
“Whoreson!” the man cried. “I know what you’ve come for—and you shan’t have it!” He reached inside the carriage and brought out a bundle wrapped in a cloth. “Is this what you seek,old friend?”
He removed the cloth, and she caught her breath at the sight.
Mama’s clock…
The memory resurfaced from her childhood—Papa winding the clock every night. After Mama’s passing, he’d continued the nightly ritual, speaking softly to his wife as he lovingly tended to the precious timepiece, his eyes glistening with moisture. Until it had been taken from him.
“H-hand it over,” she said, her voice wavering.
“What wouldyouwant with it?” Walton sneered. “It’s practically worthless—I paid two shillings for it, and even that was too much.”
His voice was laced with derision and triumph. The skin at the back of her neck prickled with apprehension. Why did he sound so confident?
“Why I want it is my business,” she said. “Do as I say.”
He let out a cold laugh. “Why would I wish to dothat?”
“Just do it!” She placed her thumb on the hammer and cocked her weapon. “I insist you hand over the clock.”
“Oh,insist, do you?” Walton chuckled. “Did you hear that? Heinsists—the insolent blackguard!”
The carriage dipped to one side, and a thick-set man climbed out. He stood next to Walton, then pulled something from his pocket.
Lavinia’s gut twisted in fear as she caught the glint of the barrel of a pistol.
