Chapter Twelve
Charles stirred when the contessa inched aside the curtain and peered out the window at the desolate landscape of fields and marshes. She was clearly anxious to still be on the road as night approached. Her daughter, however, showed no such discomfort, nor did his sister. The fact that Gillian and Elizabeth were much alike in their practical and cheerful approach to life was a blessing, considering the four of them had been cooped up in a traveling coach for the last five days.
With Gillian’s reputation a hair’s breadth away from ruination, they’d decided on a quick retreat from town. Temporarily removing her from the eye of the storm was now the only path to restoring her good name—if they even could. Charles was beginning to have some serious doubts on that score, although he kept them to himself.
Even he hadn’t thought one little uppercut to the jaw of an earl would cause so much trouble.
“It’s getting quite dark,” the contessa said. “Perhaps it would have been best to spend the night in Spilsby, after all.”
“Good God, Mamma,” Gillian said. “That little inn was incredibly dirty and damp, and I shudder to even think of the sheets.” She took her mother’s hand. “I promise everything will be fine, darling. His Grace won’t let anything happen to us.”
Gillian was devoted to her mother and endlessly attentive to her comfort on the dreary trip. That the mother seemed unable to care for her own daughter, however, was sadly evident. Although no one could find a sweeter, more gentle-tempered woman, the contessa suffered from a melancholy that rendered her all but useless in dealing with life’s travails and managing her own child.
“Indeed not,” said Elizabeth. “And I’m sure we’ll arrive at Fenfield Manor well before nightfall, won’t we, Charles?”
He lifted the curtain on his side of the coach with one finger. Bands of purple and pink shimmered on the horizon, bleeding up into darker bands of blue. Although full nightfall would come within the hour, plenty of light remained for the coachman to see. This far north, the days were long enough for them to push ahead and finally reach the end of this seemingly interminable journey.
“There is no cause for concern,” he said. “I know this part of Lincolnshire seems remote, but we are perfectly safe.”
“It’s just that we’ve encountered hardly anyone in almost two hours,” the contessa said. “Anything could happen to us, and no one would even know it.”
“I would never allow anything to happen to you or your daughter, madam.”
“What about me?” Elizabeth demanded.
“You? I’d turn you over to the highwaymen in order to give us time to make our escape.”
“Wretch,” Elizabeth said with a grin. Gillian snickered.
The contessa didn’t so much as crack a smile. Charles couldn’t blame her, given that bandits had murdered her husband. He’d best remember that before he made any more careless jokes.
“My groom and coachman are well armed and well trained, my lady,” Charles said. “And we will reach my estate within the hour.”
“Thank God.” Stretching her arms, Gillian arched her back, pulling herself into a slim, beautiful curve that showcased the gentle swell of her breasts under the trim fit of her spencer. “Not that your coach isn’t exceedingly comfortable, sir, but my muscles are so bloody stiff that I feel like an old lady.”
“My love, you must not swear,” her mother admonished with a gentle smile. Charles suspected that Gillian’s language had been precisely intended to distract her mamma. He, however, was distracted by some extremely inconvenient images of what Gillian’s body might look like without all that clothing.
He forced his gaze from her trim figure up to her face. Unfortunately, it was just as enticing as her body. His attraction to her was becoming quite the problem, since the rumors circulating amongst the ton affected him almost as much as Gillian.
“Sorry, Mamma.” Gillian shifted to look at Charles. “I suppose you want to scold me, too. Go ahead. I promise I won’t say a peep in my defense.” She adopted a martyred expression.
“Since your mother has already corrected you, I’ll let it pass. Just this once.”
“You are kindness itself, sir,” she said, clasping her hands over her chest and sounding comically dramatic.
Elizabeth laughed. “You are truly the most ridiculous child.”
“Someone has to keep us entertained,” Gillian said. “Lord knows the duke has been falling down on the job. He just drones on about the peerage and the proper way to dance a figure or hold a fork. I find it exceedingly unfair, since I’m a captive audience.”
“We’re all a captive audience,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve been tempted to throw myself out of the carriage at least twice a day, especially when he pontificates about appropriate topics of discussion for gently bred ladies.” She leaned over to Gillian, as if to confide in her. “He used to do the same to me when I was a young girl. He was always correcting my bad behavior.”
“Because there was quite a lot to correct,” Charles said.
“Well, if that’s what older brothers do, I’m very glad I never had one,” said Gillian. “Except for Griffin, of course. He’s a notable exception.”
Amusement gleamed in her eyes. Once again, Charles was struck by her sanguine, even good-humored attitude. Most girls would have taken to their beds in hysterics in the face of all the nasty rumors. But Gillian didn’t seem to care. “Your brother is worse than you are,” he said.
“That’s why I like him so much.”
Elizabeth laughed again, but the contessa looked worried. “Gillian, you shouldn’t be teasing. We’re very grateful for everything the duke has done for you.”
“Of course we are, Mamma. Leverton has been exceedingly kind.”
“I’ve been more than happy to help,” he said.
Gillian studied him, her expression turning thoughtful. “I very much doubt that. But, truly, you’ve been so nice to me and to Mamma. I can’t even begin to think how I’ll repay you.”
Charles could think of several ways, none of them nice. Naughty, in fact, would describe them perfectly. “You could start by paying better attention to me when I’m explaining something. Such as how to behave like a proper young lady at a ball instead of like a hoyden.”
“Anything except for that,” she said, mischief once more gleaming in her eyes.
Charles had to repress the impulse to laugh. He had, in fact, given up trying to instruct her, at least on the trip. Gillian had enough trouble sitting still for hours at a time, let alone trying to focus on lessons. Though she did read quite often, at least when the roads were good enough to allow it, her reading primarily consisted of the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe.
Despite her good humor, the trip taxed her. Gillian seethed with restless, physical energy that cried out for relief. Fortunately, Elizabeth had hit on the notion of teaching her how to play cards. It had never occurred to Charles that she wouldn’t know how to play. Every day, it became clearer just how socially isolated Gillian had been in her former life. Her family had loved and protected her, but had done little to prepare her for anything approaching a normal life among the aristocracy. He suspected it was her grandfather, Lord Marbury, who’d been mostly at fault.
Regardless, it was now up to Charles to correct the situation.
“You’ve had a lengthy break from your lessons, Miss Dryden,” he said. “But tomorrow we begin again in earnest.”
She rolled her eyes. “Five days in a carriage is hardly what I call a break. Besides I’m not sure there’s any point in lessons, given what people are saying about me.”
“We agreed that we wouldn’t think or talk about that,” her mother said.
“I know, Mamma. But there’s been nothing else to do these past several days but think. I don’t see how I can come back from the Savage Sicilian much less—”
“Don’t even say it,” Charles said in a stern voice.
“Everyone else is,” Gillian said defiantly. “And pretending otherwise isn’t going to make things better. It seems entirely mad to me to believe we can actually fix this.”
When Charles narrowed his gaze in silent warning, Gillian simply crossed her arms over her chest and stared back at him, not the least bit intimidated, as usual.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Do you actually wish to fix this, as you refer to it, or would you rather give up? Because I have a sense that you’re quite happy to escape town.” He shook his head. “It surprises me that you’re so willing to back down without a fight. Your brother certainly wants to give it a go.”
In fact, Griffin Steele had all but threatened to shoot anyone who dared to say a cruel word about his sister—starting with Letitia Stratton.
Gillian’s dark eyes flashed fire. “Are you calling me a coward?”
“Dear me,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think we should discuss this now. It’s the end of a long, tiring day, and our nerves are quite frayed. Don’t you agree, contessa?”
Gillian shot a guilty glance at her mother. “I don’t mean to upset you, Mamma, but it seems silly to tiptoe around what happened. You know that better than anyone.”
Much to Charles’s surprise, the contessa regarded her daughter with a calm expression. “I do. In your case, however, you have done nothing wrong. I earned my shame. You, my love, did not.”
Gillian twisted to face her. “You earned nothing but the right to be happy, Mamma. I’ll murder anyone who says otherwise.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so, my dear. But there are those in the ton who disagree, and who also believe that my behavior still reflects on you.”
“But it was all so long ago,” Gillian replied. “Why does it even matter anymore what you did?”
“Because that’s the way people are, unfortunately. And to the gossips, you are both a living reminder and an irresistible temptation.” She took her daughter’s hand. “I understand there is a certain phrase currently making the rounds in London regarding us. I suspect you know what it is.”
Gillian’s mouth pulled into an unhappy twist. “Like mother, like daughter,” she finally answered with obvious reluctance.
“Yes, along with ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ Both are exceedingly unimaginative, but in our case they have a certain ring.” The contessa’s smile was so sad that Charles wanted to pummel every simpering prat who’d dared to spread ugly gossip about Gillian and her mother.
“Ugh,” Elizabeth said with a grimace. “I occasionally forget how dreary the ton can be.”
The contessa shrugged. “It’s to be expected. But it’s also why it made sense for me to leave town with my daughter. My presence would only have fueled more gossip and attention, whether Gillian was with me or not.”
“Leaving your mother behind to hold down the fort, as she put it,” Charles said. Lady Marbury had been unshakeable. “To stay and push back against the gossip.”
“My mother refused to run away again,” the contessa said. “She said that this time, she was going to stand her ground and fight—for me and for Gillian.”
“What a mess,” Elizabeth said, rubbing her forehead.
“But you did wish to leave town, didn’t you, Mamma?” Gillian asked, sounding anxious. “I hate to think you were forced out on my account, especially after you had just returned home.”
“Of course, darling. As if I wouldn’t rather be with my child than anywhere without her.”
“Then I’m glad we left,” Gillian said. “I have no wish to spend my time with people who can be so dreadful to my mother. In fact, I hope we stay away a good, long time. I quite hate English society, if you must know the truth.”
“You hated Sicilian society too, as I recall,” her mother said.
Gillian breathed out an aggrieved sigh. “Can you truly blame me?”
“No, dear. The way they treated you was distressing. That is why I’d like to avoid a repeat of it, if at all possible. We’ll stay away as long as His Grace deems necessary, then we will return together to London.”
When her daughter started to look mutinous, Contessa di Paterini took an unexpectedly firm line. “In the meantime, you will continue your lessons and do exactly as the duke says.”
“But, Mamma, as I said,” Gillian argued, “I don’t really see the point. My reputation is—”
Her mother put up a hand to interrupt. “Your reputation is not ruined. Gillian, I simply refuse to see you labeled as notorious, when you are no such thing. In every way that matters, you are entirely innocent.” She looked at Charles, her gaze clear and steady. “This is merely a strategic retreat, is it not, my dear sir?”
He was surprised by her display of maternal fortitude, but it could only help. “That is an excellent way of putting it. Nevertheless, it’s best not to underestimate the challenge.”
Like mother, like daughter.
To have Gillian already placed in the same category as her mother was more of a setback than he’d envisioned—especially after what Stratton had told him. That was information, however, that he intended to keep to himself.
“What aren’t you telling us, Charles?” Elizabeth asked in a suspicious voice.
His sister had always been too damned perceptive for her own good. “Nothing you need concern yourself about.”
Gillian’s gaze narrowed, as if she were trying to see into his head. “Your Grace—”
The carriage jolted to a halt, rocking violently on its frame. Gillian grabbed onto her mother, while Charles reached out to support Elizabeth before she slid to the floor.
“What the devil?” He heard a muffled shout and the neighing protest of the horses, and then nothing.
He reached for the door, but it swung open before he could grasp the handle. The barrel of a pistol stared him right in the face.
* * *
“Confound it,” Gillian muttered. All they needed after another long, dreary day on the road was bandits. She was so bloody sick of bandits.
Come to think of it, she was sick of most everything English, with the possible exception of the people in the carriage. And if the English bastard holding a gun on them dared to lay a hand on her mother or anyone else, she would throttle him.
Leverton shot her a sharp glance. “Let me handle this.”
She widened her eyes, as if to suggest that she wouldn’t dream of causing trouble. He snorted and went back to eyeing the pistol with disdain.
“You, Mr. Fancy. Get out of the bloody carriage,” barked the man with the pistol.
“If you will cease waving that weapon in my face, I will be happy to comply,” Leverton said coldly. The duke was managing to convey a perfect mix of contempt and irritation. It would take more than highwaymen to rattle His Grace, the Duke of Leverton.
Her mother, however, was trembling like a leaf in the wind. Gillian wanted to hug her, but needed her hands free in case the situation spun out of control. Stealthily, she reached for her reticule.
Leverton uncurled his big body and moved to the carriage door. The brute with the pistol—an exceedingly large fellow, sporting a battered felt cap and a dirty kerchief over his mouth and nose—retreated to let the duke disembark.
“Just be quiet and stay still,” the duke said over his shoulder.
Lady Filby looked almost as calm as her brother, although she’d gone a bit green around the gills. “I will be as quiet as a mouse, I assure you.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” He flicked Gillian a warning glance.
She scowled, but Leverton had already stepped down to the road. “Who’s in charge here?” he said in his haughtiest voice, before stalking out of her line of sight.
By the sound of the answering voices, there were at least two other men besides their guard, who stood a few feet away with his weapon still pointed in their direction.
Her reticule in hand, Gillian leaned in to her mother. “Change places with me, Mamma.”
Her mother jerked, her eyes wide and frightened. Gillian’s anger flared into a cold, steady flame. This incident would be a terrifying reminder of everything Mamma had lost, and of how helpless they’d all been to prevent it.
“What are you going to do?” Mamma whispered.
“I just want to see what’s going on,” Gillian said soothingly.
Her mother reluctantly nodded. As they switched places, Elizabeth shot Gillian a sharp glance, but didn’t object.
“Oy, you two settle down in there,” ordered their guard.
Leverton, now back in her sights, sent her a hard look.
“I had to get my mother out of the draft,” Gillian said in a meek voice. “She’s quite prone to taking a chill.”
“Well, just sit yer arse down and be still,” the man said. “Or I’ll give you what for.” He waggled the pistol for emphasis.
“There’s no need for threats,” Leverton said. “Especially not to three defenseless women.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” snapped one of the other bandits.
“No, I will,” Leverton replied. “Or there will be hell to pay, on my word as Duke of Leverton.”
His words silenced their captors for several long seconds. Even the pugnacious guard seemed taken aback. Gillian was quite sure that everyone in the county knew how powerful the duke was, including the bandits.
She craned out a bit, trying to see around the edge of the doorframe. Leverton fell back into discussion with a tall, spare man in a long, dark coat, a slouchy hat, and a kerchief that effectively obscured his features in the fading light. She could make out four other armed men, scattered behind the fellow who she guessed was their leader.
In front of the duke’s carriage, two carts hooked up to ponies blocked the road. The carts were stacked with small barrels and square bundles bound up in some sort of cloth. Oddly, the wheels of the carts were wrapped with straw. A boy stood at the head of one of the ponies, holding the bridle.
Leverton’s coachman and groom were nowhere in sight.
“Can you see anything?” Elizabeth whispered.
Gillian nodded. “Two carts are blocking the road, as if they were crossing from the field on the other side. And there’s straw tied to the wheels.”
“Drat,” muttered Lady Filby. “They’re smugglers, probably carrying gin and tobacco. It’s quite common in these parts.”
“Smugglers? Oh, no,” moaned Mamma. She slumped against the squabs, as if on the edge of a swoon.
Gillian mentally cursed as she supported her mother. Smugglers could be exceedingly dangerous if they perceived their run to be jeopardized.
Their guard jabbed the pistol through the door of the carriage. “Keep that ninny quiet, or you’ll be sorry. We don’t need no wailin’ and carryin’ on. You’ll bring the law down on us.”
“Come now, sir,” Lady Filby said in a credibly calm voice. “There isn’t a soul around for miles. I’m sure you’re quite safe.”
The brute moved in closer to peer at the countess, or more specifically, at her generous bosom.
I think not. Gillian leaned forward to draw his attention. “You’re making more noise than we are. If anyone is calling attention to this lovely little gathering, it’s you.”
Her gambit worked, since his focus swung round to her. “I said stow it, you silly bitch.”
Leverton whipped around, the tails of his driving coat whirling about his legs. “You, there. You will leave the ladies alone. Now.”
Their guard straightened. “Or you’ll do what, Mr. Fancy? Beat me to a bloody pulp?”
The duke didn’t move a muscle, but the look on his face caused the man to take a step back. Gillian couldn’t blame the lout. In the flickering light of the carriage lamps, Leverton’s eyes and expression conveyed a cold, dangerous fury.
“For Christ’s sake,” growled the apparent leader of the gang, “the last thing we need is the bleedin’ Duke of Leverton up our arses. Just keep watch on them women and keep your bleedin’ mouth shut, you stupid yob.”
The guard reluctantly retreated a few paces, muttering under his breath.
Gillian went back to watching Leverton. “It sounds like the duke is trying to negotiate our way out of this,” she murmured.
“We’ve obviously stumbled into the middle of a run,” Lady Filby answered in a low voice. “Although I’m surprised they’d take such a risk before nightfall. But with any luck, we should be on our way in a few minutes.”
Gillian blinked. “Just like that?”
“Smuggling has been going on in this part of England for decades. Most landowners find it easier to turn a blind eye than to fight it.”
Everything in Gillian automatically rebelled at the notion. In her experience, nothing good came from ignoring acts committed by ruthless thugs.
The countess obviously deduced her thoughts. “It’s the safest thing to do, truly,” she murmured.
Perhaps, but Gillian had no intention of sitting there like hapless prey, hoping for the best. Keeping the movement as small as possible, she slipped her hand inside her reticule.
A moment later, their guard reappeared in the door of the carriage, waving his pistol at Gillian. “Wot’s that you got around your neck?”
Gillian sucked in a breath. Hell and damnation.
At some point, the gold chain around her neck had slipped out from under her collar. That meant that the gold St. Michael medallion embedded with tiny rubies was clearly visible against the dark green of her spencer. While Gillian didn’t give a hang about jewels or other fripperies, her stepfather had given her the necklace shortly before he was murdered. It was meant to place her under the protection of the most powerful of archangels and to keep her safe when Step-papa wasn’t there to watch over her. Gillian never took it off.
“Just a paste necklace,” she said, slipping it back under her collar. Impatiently, she glanced over at Leverton. What in heaven’s name was taking so long?
“It don’t look like paste to me,” the guard said. “Hand it over.”
“Here, take this instead.” Lady Filby rummaged in her reticule and pulled out a wad of pound notes.
The man plucked the notes from her hand and shoved them in his pocket. “And I’ll take the pretty gel’s necklace as well. Got to get somethin’ more for all the trouble yer causin’ us.”
“No, you won’t,” Gillian said in a pleasant voice.
“Feisty, are you? I like ’em that way. If you don’t wants to give me your bauble, how about you give me something else?”
It would be a miracle if she didn’t end up killing the swine. “Really? What do you have in mind?”
“Gillian, don’t,” her mother whispered.
The man leaned in and rested a huge, gloved hand on Gillian’s thigh. “How’s about you and me get behind one of these trees over there? You give me what I want, and you gets to keep yer bauble.”
“Unhand her instantly,” Lady Filby said, “or the duke will have your head.”
“Shut your gob or you’ll be next,” the man snarled. “Maybe you’ll be next, anyway. I’ve a fancy to see what’s under all that fine frippery.”
The countess went pale.
“I think not,” Gillian scoffed.
“You ain’t givin’ the orders.” The brute squeezed her thigh hard, then reached for the chain.
He froze when Gillian pressed the barrel of her small pistol under his jaw. “Do not touch my necklace.”
He snatched his hand back.
“Now, I would hate to make a mess of this lovely upholstery by blowing out your brains,” she said. “Please back away before I am forced to do just that.” When he hesitated, she parted her lips in her most vicious smile. “I will blow your brains out, without hesitation.”
“You’re barking mad,” he rasped out.
“Then I suggest you do as I say, since you have no idea what I might do next.”
He started a slow retreat. Gillian followed, keeping her pistol under his chin. He was poised awkwardly on the steps when he slipped and pitched forward, practically into her lap. His weight threw her off balance, jogging her pistol and causing it to discharge.
“Bloody hell, you shot me!” he yelped, clutching his shoulder.
“So it would seem,” she muttered, annoyed that she’d lost control of the situation.
He stared at her, clearly in shock. Then a large, gloved hand clamped on to his shoulder and flung him backwards out of the carriage. The duke loomed in the doorway.
“What the devil is going on here?” he said over the uproar going on outside the coach.
His eyes widened as he took in the pistol in Gillian’s hand. He glanced behind him, then back at Gillian.
“Did you just shoot that man?” He plucked the weapon from her hand.
She shrugged.
“Charles, he was robbing us,” Lady Filby said in a shaky voice. “And he was threatening to do much worse. What else was Gillian to do?”
“Not start a riot,” he said as he shoved the pistol into his coat pocket. “You have just made our lives infinitely more complicated, Miss Dryden.”
“I didn’t plan it, I assure you. Besides, what else was I to do? You were otherwise engaged,” Gillian said with heavy sarcasm.
He was clearly about to retort when somebody shoved him from behind. Cursing, Leverton glared over his shoulder. “What now?”
“Get ’em all out of the carriage,” someone growled from behind him.
“Your man attacked one of my companions,” the duke said in a cold voice. “She was simply defending herself.”
“She bloody well shot my brother. Get ’em out, or I’ll drag ’em out myself.”
Leverton started to protest, but a moment later a man, presumably the one who’d just spoken, appeared behind the duke and jabbed a pistol against his skull.
Gillian’s heart lurched. “All right, we’re coming.”
The man with the gun retreated, allowing the three women to alight with the duke’s assistance. They lined up along the side of the carriage. In the fading dusk, Gillian could make out six men, including the idiot she’d shot and one attending to his wound. One man held a gun on the coachman and the groom, who were sitting on the ground by the carriage, while the others leveled their weapons at the women. Their leader squared off with Leverton.
A quick glance around showed Gillian only one dim light on the other side of the field flanking the road, presumably from a farmhouse or cottage in the distance. The road itself was deserted.
“How is he?” the gang leader asked the man who was tending to his brother.
“Just hit his upper arm. Bullet went clean through.”
“Which one shot you?” the leader growled to his brother.
“The skinny gel,” the smuggler said in a whining voice.
The leader kicked him in the leg. “Lettin’ a girl shoot you—yer a disgrace to the family, you are,” he said, ignoring his brother’s offended yowl.
“Just tell me how much, and we’ll be on our way,” Leverton said in an impatient voice.
“We’ll be wantin’ more than just a few pound notes, Yer Grace. You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble tonight.”
The leader’s gaze moved to Gillian, interest flickering in his expression. Fortunately, she had a small but very sharp knife in her boot if she needed to defend herself. Unfortunately, that meant there would still be four armed, angry men to deal with.
When the man made a move in her direction, Leverton stepped between them. “Don’t even think about it.” His tone held a deadly threat that only a fool would ignore.
The leader was no fool because he put up a placating hand. “I won’t touch a hair on her precious head. But I want to see what’s so important she was willin’ to shoot somebody.”
“It’s a bleedin’ necklace,” his brother said. “With rubies.”
Gillian stiffened, mentally cursing.
“I reckon that’ll even the score a bit,” the leader said. He let out a laugh as he looked down at his brother. “Not sure you’ll get any, though. Not for lettin’ a pampered miss get the best of you.”
His men guffawed. When the laughter died away, the gang leader jerked a head in her direction, and one of his men stalked over to Gillian.
She bared her lips in a snarl. “Don’t touch me.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Leverton sighed. “Give him the necklace.”
“No.” It felt like she’d be losing her stepfather for a second time. “They can have anything else, but not that.”
The gang leader once more pressed his gun to the back of Leverton’s skull. Gillian couldn’t help flinching, and Lady Filby sucked in a horrified gasp.
The duke displayed no fear. In fact, he looked ready to kill someone. Probably Gillian.
“My love, please give them the necklace,” her mother said in a quiet voice. “It’s not worth it.”
Gillian stared at the duke, who gazed back at her with an ironic lift to his brows. She was quite sure the gang leader wouldn’t shoot Leverton. After all, no one in his right mind would shoot a duke.
But they shot my stepfather, didn’t they? She reached up and yanked the chain, not even bothering to undo the clasp. “Here,” she said, flinging it at the gang leader. It felt like her heart went with it.
The gang leader caught the necklace and held it up to the light of the carriage lamp. His scarf muffled his satisfied grunt. “Aye, that’ll do.” He waved a gun at Gillian’s mother. “Now give me yer purse.”
When Mamma whimpered, Gillian had to swallow a curse. When they traveled, her mother carried a few of her most precious jewels in her reticule, reluctant to consign them even to Maria’s care.
Her mother handed over her reticule. Gillian could do nothing but squeeze her hand in sympathy, while rage burned through her brain like a firestorm.
When the bandit moved down to Lady Filby, she bridled. “Your man already cleaned me out.”
“Give me that bauble on your wrist,” the leader ordered.
Muttering, the countess flung her gold bracelet into the mud at the gang leader’s feet. While Leverton scowled at his sister, Gillian had nothing but admiration for her. She understood the urge to cling to the shreds of one’s dignity even when a situation was hopeless.
With a shrug, the gang leader retrieved the bracelet. “A little dirt never hurt no one.”
“At least he’s a practical villain,” Gillian muttered. She heard Lady Filby choke back a laugh.
“I trust that now concludes our business,” Leverton said, “given the very substantial haul you made with only a trifling inconvenience.”
The gang leader gave him a mocking bow. “Aye, Yer Grace, it does. But don’t forget what I told you. Talk about this little encounter, and trouble will surely come yer way.”
“Your words of warning are engraved on my brain,” the duke said. His tone was as dry as the dirt beneath their feet.
The smugglers hoisted the injured man into one of the carts, and they soon melted into the marshes and the encroaching night. Soon, even the rumble of the muffled wheels faded into silence. They were alone, as if the episode had never happened.
Leverton crouched behind the coachman, struggling with the rope around the man’s wrists. “John, do you have a knife? This rope is wet.”
Gillian pulled up her skirt and slipped the knife from her boot. “Take mine.”
The duke shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
She repressed a sigh as she handed the blade to him. Clearly, whatever good will she’d built up with Leverton had died an ignominious death. Gillian told herself she didn’t care.
The duke swiftly freed his men, but cut off their apologies. “There will be ample opportunity to discuss our mutual failings at a later time. For now, I’d like to get the ladies to Fenfield Manor as quickly as possible. Especially since those damned smugglers took your weapons.”
“You still have my pistol,” Gillian said. “I have extra shot and powder with my nightgear, but it’s tied up in the boot.”
“How inconvenient,” Leverton snapped.
She struggled to hold on to her rising temper. “It probably wouldn’t do much good anyway. It’s a woman’s pistol, only good for close quarters.”
“Unbelievable,” he said again, rather unnecessarily, Gillian thought.
“For God’s sake, Charles,” Lady Filby said, “may we please get back in this confounded coach and be on our way? I’m sure the contessa is chilled to the bone. I certainly am.”
Wincing with guilt, Gillian turned to her mother. “Yes, Mamma, let’s get you inside.”
“I beg your pardon,” Leverton said. “Please, madam, take my hand.”
Gillian glared at him. “We don’t need your help.”
As she assisted her mother into the carriage, she swore he was grinding his teeth. Gillian was tempted to snipe at him, but the sadness on her mother’s face held her back. She hadn’t seen such a haunted look in Mamma’s eyes for a long time. “There, darling,” she murmured, as she tucked a thick woolen shawl about her mother’s legs. “Before you know it, we’ll be there, and you can have a nice cup of tea and go to bed.”
“Thank you, my dear,” her mother said in a voice devoid of emotion. Gillian’s heart seemed to drop into a pit.
A moment later, the carriage lurched forward. Gillian fussed over her mother, doing her best to ignore the chilly silence and the duke.
His sister was the first to speak. “Well, that was a first.”
Gillian lifted an enquiring eyebrow.
“My first robbery,” Lady Filby said with a rueful smile. “And I do hope it’s my last.”
“I’m truly sorry, Elizabeth,” Leverton said in a somber tone. He looked at Gillian’s mother. “Madam, I hope you can forgive me for allowing this to happen.”
“Please, Your Grace,” Mamma said with a wan smile, “this is simply an unfortunate circumstance of life. There is no need to apologize.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Gillian couldn’t help muttering.
The duke’s expression went from concerned to aggravated in one second flat. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Miss Dryden?”
“Charles, don’t start,” his sister warned.
He ignored her. “Go ahead, Miss Dryden. Get it off your chest.”
“Very well,” Gillian said. “This could have been avoided if we’d been properly escorted and armed.”
Something flickered in his gaze. “It’s never been necessary before. These roads have always been safe.”
“Not according to your sister.” Gillian let out a disgusted snort. “And people say Sicily is dangerous.”
Leverton shot an irate glance at Lady Filby, who held up her hands. “I didn’t say it was dangerous,” she protested. “Just that smugglers frequently travel in these parts.”
“That sounds dangerous to me,” Gillian added triumphantly.
“You are wrong, Miss Dryden,” the duke said. “Smugglers generally wish to avoid drawing the attention of the authorities. Tonight’s encounter was simply a combination of bad luck and bad timing.”
Bad luck? Anger burned at the thought of what she and her mother had lost tonight. “You should have stood up to them,” she said.
“Apparently I didn’t need to, given your bloodthirsty tendencies. Savage, indeed.”
Gillian flinched as if he’d just slapped her. Actually, she’d have preferred a slap. Leverton had a way with words, both for good and ill.
“That’s quite enough, Charles,” Lady Filby exclaimed.
“My daughter doesn’t deserve that, sir,” Mamma added in a tone of wounded dignity. “She was very upset by what happened tonight, as were we all.”
Gillian squeezed her mother’s hand.
Leverton closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them, he’d regained some of his control. “I apologize, Miss Dryden.” He leaned forward. “But was that blasted necklace worth risking our lives? Hell, I would have bought you another one myself for all the trouble it caused us.”
He clearly didn’t understand why this situation was so upsetting, both to Gillian and to her mother. Sadly, it appeared that Leverton was not that different from most of the men she’d known, ones who simply expected the women in their lives to fall obediently into line. To not actually fight for what they believed in. Only men, it appeared, were allowed to do that.
“Since you are so utterly devoid of feeling, Your Grace, I will not even try to explain,” she said.
And then Gillian clamped her lips shut and refused to say another word.