The Cocoa Conspiracy (43 page)

Henning was slower in opening his eyes. “Auch, or perhaps a bloody rein has snapped, or a spoke has cracked,” he grumbled, rubbing at his unshaven chin. “There are a hundred—nay, a thousand—things that can go wrong on these miserable rutted roads of Yorkshire.”

“Thank you for the cheery note of optimism, Baz,” quipped Saybrook.

“If you want sweetness and light, you should have headed south, and caught a ship to the balmy shores of Catalonia,” retorted his friend. The earl was, in fact, half Spanish, a fact that only added to his reputation for eccentricity among the Polite Society of London. “Heaven knows, we would all be far more comfortable there than in this godforsaken wilderness.”

“I’ll step outside and see what the problem is. If there is an obstacle blocking the way, Jose may need a hand.” Saybrook buttoned his overcoat and, after a hint of hesitation, eased the carriage pistol from its holster by the door before reaching for the latch.

Arianna frowned. “You expect trouble?”

“It is always wise to be prepared—”

One of the windowpanes suddenly exploded in a shattering of silvery shards.

“Get down,” ordered the earl calmly as he ducked low and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “Arm yourselves. The dueling pistols are in a case under the chess set, Baz, while the cavalry weapons are in my valise. You guard the left while I reconnoiter on the right.” And with that, he rolled out into the gloom.

Henning’s sleepy scowl vanished. Like Saybrook, he was a battle-toughened veteran of the Peninsular War. The bullet did not spark panic, merely a short, sarcastic laugh.

“Ah well, we did ask for things to get a bit warmer.” His lips pursed as he pulled out the rosewood box and checked the priming of the sleek pistols. “Here, you had best keep one of these fancy barking irons, Lady S. You’ve already proved you know how to use it.” The matched pair had been a gift from the Russian Tsar, who had professed his undying admiration for her marksmanship during their recent stay in Vienna, when her shot had saved—

Arianna took the pistol and then slipped a sheathed knife from her reticule and pushed it into her pocket. The long, slim blade was deceptively dainty looking. Its steel was lethally sharp.

“There is something to be said for possessing an unladylike expertise with deadly weapons,” she replied.

Henning’s chuckle died away in the sound of splintering wood as another bullet smashed through the casement. “Stay here and keep low.” He crawled over her tangled skirts and unlatched the far door. “I’ll go cover Sandro. Whoever is out there is in for a rude surprise.”

She watched his boots disappear and then counted to ten before following after him.

Cold spiked through her as she hit the ground and slithered into the shelter of the spoked wheel. The light, gray and grainy as gunpowder, was fast fading behind the weathered clefts of granite, leaving the narrow road through the ravine shrouded in shadows.

Squinting, she tried to bring the hazy shapes into focus. Sounds were just as muffled—all she could hear above her pounding heart was the nervous snorts of the horses and the rush of a nearby mountain stream tumbling down through the rocks.

Damn.
Arianna drew in a deep breath and held herself very still. No sign of movement up ahead, no stirring of—

A scuff—and then a step, coming from the rear of the carriage.

Easing back the weapon’s hammer to full cock, she slithered forward for a better view.

Swoosh, swoosh.
The faint whisper of wool brushing against leather. A moment later, the dark flutter of a greatcoat, skirling around a pair of well-worn boots.

Not those of her husband or his friend.

Arianna tightened her grip on the butt. Her hands were so cold that she could barely feel any sensation in her fingers.

“Ha.” With a low hiss, the stranger dropped to a crouch by the wheel and raised a rifle. “I see you now, behind that rock,” he muttered under his breath. “One . . . two . . .”

“Drop your weapon before I count to three,” said Arianna, moving the pistol to within a hairsbreadth of his temple. “Or you are a dead man.”

His jaw twitched in shock.

“In case you are wondering, I’m an excellent shot,” she went on. “Not that any aim is required at this distance to blow your skull to Kingdom Come.”

Snarling a low savage oath, he tried to swing around, but the rifle barrel knocked against the iron rim and went off with a deafening bang.

At the same instant a sharper shot rang out, and a gurgle of blood spurted from the man’s jugular as the earl’s shot tore open his throat. He pitched forward and fell face down on the hardscrabble ground, a viscous black pool quickly spreading over the snow-dusted stones.

Wrenching her gaze up from his sightless eyes, Arianna spotted Saybrook moving along a ridge of rock.

“Sandro—behind you!” she cried in warning as a second silhouette rose from the murky shadows, too close for her to dare a shot.

The earl whirled and lashed out a kick that caught his assailant’s knee, knocking him to the ground. The man rolled out of reach and sprang to his feet, flinging a rock at Saybrook’s head. It missed by a hair, the echoing ricochet sounding like gunfire in the swirling wind.

“Bloody hell, Jem—what are you waiting for! Shoot the bastard,” cried the assailant, whipping a hand up from his boot and cutting a slash at Saybrook’s chest.

“He’s got a knife, Sandro,” called Arianna.

“Yes, yes, don’t worry,” he responded, parrying a thrust with a quick flick of his forearm. “Stay where you are.”

Ignoring the order, she edged along the side of the carriage, alert for any other sign of movement.
Where was Henning?
she wondered.
And what of their coachman?
A low groan from the driver’s perch seemed to indicate that Jose had survived the first attack.

Question, questions—but they would have to wait.

A flurry of wild thrusts had forced Saybrook back several steps, giving her a clearer shot at his assailant.

“Tírate al suelo,”
she called to him in Spanish, ordering him to duck down.

“Aim for his knee and not his heart,” called her husband. “I want him alive for questioning.”

“Jem!” cried the assailant, his voice turning shrill.

A shot rang out from somewhere on the other side of the coach, followed by a scream. One of the horses whinnied in fright, spooked by the flash of fire.

“Ye’ll be getting no help from Jem.” Henning’s voice rose above a wispy plume of gunsmoke.

“I suggest you throw down your blade,” said Saybrook to his attacker. “The lady is a crack shot.”

“As if any bloody female could hit the broad side of a barn,” jeered the assailant, but he sounded a little shaky.

“Oh, I assure you, my wife is no ordinary female.”

Arianna angled the pistol’s barrel a fraction. “I’ll aim a touch high. If I miss, it will hit his cods rather than his knee. Either way, he won’t be walking very steadily for quite a while.”

Her sangfroid seemed to spook the man. Cutting a last halfhearted jab at Saybrook, the man suddenly turned and bolted for the tangled wildness of the looming moor.

“Dio Madre!”
She was about to pull the trigger and drop him with a shot to the leg when her husband took off after him. Cursing her flapping skirts, she scrabbled up to the top of the ledge and followed as fast as she dared.

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Lady Arianna Regency Mystery Series