Page 121 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Before they emerged from the forest, a faint sound pulsated in the air. Etty’s stomach clenched again. Was the beast—or whatever it had been—following them?
“Hurry along, girls,” she said, quickening the pace. But the sound only increased, filling the air with a rhythmic tattoo.
Then she smiled to herself, cursing her folly.
It was a horse—traveling at speed, from the sound of it. But nevertheless, her heart rate steadied as the trees thinned out and she caught sight of the road leading toward the house. With a final glance over her shoulder toward the darkness of the forest, she stepped out onto the road, flanked by the children.
The hoofbeats increased in volume, reverberating in her chest until she could almost believe the ground vibrated beneath her feet.
Then the rider emerged at the turn at the far end of the road—a man on an enormous black horse, approaching them at a gallop. The horse’s mane rippled with the motion as man and beast claimed the path, riding as one. He leaned forward in the saddle, urging his mount on, and Etty tightened her grip on the girls’ hands as the rider swallowed up the path, moving closer with no sign of slowing.
Florence let out a whimper and Etty stepped back, drawing the girls to her, lest they be trampled.
Then the rider stiffened and straightened his back. “Whoa there!” he roared, and leaned back, grasping the reins. With a neigh that split the air in two, the horse reared up and unseated the rider, who tumbled to the ground with a curse.
He made to stand, then collapsed back, his leg giving way beneath him.
“Damnation!”
His top hat had come off, and Etty plucked it from the ground and approached him. “Are you hurt, sir?” she asked.
“What in the name of the Almighty does it look like?”
Etty’s gut twisted at the familiar voice. He turned to face her, and her voice caught in her throat. “I…”
Dark, expressive brown eyes widened as they recognized her.
“You!” he cried. “What areyoudoing here?”
“Helping you up,” she said, offering her hand. He stared at it for a moment, then took it, curling his gloved fingers around her wrist as he struggled to his feet. “How do you come to be here, Andrew?”
“I-I’m a guest at Longford Hall.”
“You’reBella’sguest?”
He nodded. “Mr. Baxter issued the invitation.”
“I didn’t think…” Her voice trailed off as she cast her gaze over him, taking in the perfectly tailored jacket and cream breeches—albeit streaked with mud now. Then she turned his hat over in her hands, running her fingertips along the soft charcoal-gray felt exterior to inspect the inside, lined with cream silk, bearing a label embroidered with the inscriptionLock & Co.St. James.
She ran her fingertips along the silk, and a nugget of pride swelled in her heart. Lock & Co. was one of her father’s customers. Perhaps Papa had supplied the very bolt of silk from which the hat’s lining had been fashioned.
“Why do you smile?” he asked, reaching for the hat.
“Because…” Etty hesitated as understanding slid into place. “You’re Viscount Radham, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“But that’s wonderful! I’m happy for you, Andrew.”
His eyes narrowed. “Happy that my brother is dead?”
“No, of course not. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, madam,” he said. Then he shook his head and sighed. “I ought to have known—fool that I am. You’rethewoman, aren’t you?”
“What woman?” she asked.
“The woman looking to purchase a titled husband,” he said. “I ought to have known when Baxter made such a business of insisting I attend to meet his wife’sparticular friendthat some stratagem was afoot. Tell me, madam—was the plot of Baxter’s making?”
