“Sell them,” Fielder said. “He won’t be needing them.” The others laughed with confidence, as if he’d made a great joke. They moved off down the road.
Lyssa’s heart beat in her ears and she tasted fear. The Irishman didn’t move and so she dared not.
They waited for what seemed hours but was in actuality fifteen minutes, maybe less. The Irishman removed his hand from her mouth and crawled over her. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Seeing if it is all clear.” He rose to his feet. A moment later, he offered her his hand. “Come. We’re safe.” He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing.
Lyssa ran a distracted hand through her hair. It hung loose, a hopeless mess, and she didn’t have a pin to use to tidy it—suchan odd thing to think about when one had murderers on her trail…
She reached for her precious plaid and held it out for inspection. There was a hole torn in the corner but it was not completely ruined. She wrapped it around her shoulders, needing something to help her combat the terrible coldness stealing through her.
The Irishman spoke. “Who wants you dead, Miss Harrell?”
She didn’t know, didn’t want to think on it. Instead, she said, “Which maid did you bring?”
“Harriet.”
Harriet. The maid was newly arrived in London and had been so willing to please that Lyssa had championed her. The pain of betrayal ran deep. “You were a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to know what you are doing.” She had to make her mind work, to make sense of the violence, of what was happening. This was all to have been a lark. An adventure.
She forced herself to stop shaking by clasping her hands together. “I don’t think anyone wants me dead.”
“Obviously you’re wrong. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble and a good expense to achieve that objective, including using me.” There was a beat silence and then he added, “That was their first mistake.” She understood what he was saying. This was personal to him now.
“Do you think your father could be behind this?” he hazarded.
His suggestion staggered her. “No. I told you earlier, he’d never want to see me dead. He loves me! If anything it would be my stepmother.”
“Your stepmother?” The Irishman shook his head. “Murder is a bold crime. I’ve met her. She hasn’t it in her.”
“Of course,” Lyssa agreed sarcastically. “Every man thinks my stepmother is fragile. Trust me, she is far more resilient than most give her credit.”
“But what does she stand to gain by seeing you dead?”
“A more substantial inheritance for her child?” Lyssa suggested.
“To what purpose? She has all the money she needs.”
“Does anyone ever have all the money they need? The moment my stepmother came out of mourning for her first husband, the duke, she threw herself at my father. No one can convince me it was love at first sight. Consider their age difference. She chose him for his money, and it’s a pity my own father isn’t wise enough to see it.”
“But is she jealous enough of you to stoop to murder?” he asked.
Lyssa threw her hands in the air. “What more proof do you need? Who else would want me dead? I’m not a threat to anyone. Or perhaps you are right about my father. It seems I’veceased to matter with the advent of a baby. But then again, he is determined I marry for a title. A son can’t give him that.”
The Irishman put his pistol in his knapsack and adjusted it around his shoulders. “What about your betrothed?”
“We’re not betrothed yet, not formally.” She didn’t like to think about Grossett. Conscious that the Irishman watched her closely, she said stiffly, “He only gains if he marries me. If he wants me dead, he’d be wiser to wait until after I am his wife.”
“You don’t like him much?”
She despised him…but she’d not admit that to the Irishman. “He is my father’s choice, not mine.”
Even in the night, she could see him frown. “You could be more forthcoming, Miss Harrell. This isn’t some game, not anymore. These men want to kill you, and me if I stand in their way.”
Was he criticizing her? “I understand the severity of my position. I’ve told you everything I know. I haven’t any idea why someone would pay men to murder me.”
