Page 7 of The Cutthroat Countess

Jo had told Helen that she was going to visit a mutual acquaintance of hers and Elliot’s but hadn’t mentioned Morrison by name.

Although she knew she was probably being unduly cautious, she didn’t want to give the other woman any information that might put her in danger. Jo tried to behave the way Mungo would have done. She didn’t really believe that anyone was following her—other than Sir Stanley’s pitiful spies, whom she’d easily lost that morning by leaving through the Fayre’s alley door rather than through Helen’s house—or that she was in danger.

If there really had been a traitor in the Home Office during the Colonial War, that had been over three decades ago. Her father was dead; Mungo was dead; it was just as likely that this spy—whoever he was—was dead, also.

But she had exercised caution, regardless of her skepticism. If anything were to happen to her today, Elliot would have the information from Angus’s toy bone and he would also know where she was going and why.

The lightness in her chest slowly turned into excitement the closer she got to Daniel Morrison’s house. If he could decode those books, and if the truth was somewhere in them, that would mean her father and Mungo weren’t only innocent, but they’d been heroes for trying to catch the traitor who’d sold Britain’s secrets. She could marry Elliot guilt-free. Because even though Jo was now wealthy and titled, she’d spent enough time among the ton to know that the taint of her father’s past was certainly still tarnishing her family name. She’d received the cut direct from a surprising number of people, considering all the invitations she and her cousins received.

Jo could scarcely believe it when she saw the Three Brothers Inn sign just ahead.

“The hour and a half fled far too quickly, didn’t it, Angus?”

The raven, who’d looped back when she’d slowed her horse, quorked his agreement.

She turned onto the first road after the busy posting house and rode for perhaps half a mile before she encountered a small cottage with an uninteresting, but meticulously maintained front yard. Although the curtains in the front of the cottage were all drawn, there was smoke coming from the chimney.

Jo guided her horse around a sizeable mud puddle before dismounting. She tethered her mount at the decorative cast-iron post and made her way down the narrow gravel path that led to the front door.

She knocked on the handsome, freshly painted front door and waited. And then knocked again after a few minutes.

When nobody answered, she pushed her way between the huge box hedge that fronted the cottage and peered through a narrow gap between the curtains. The house was tiny—probably no more than two rooms—and with the curtains closed, it was as dark as a cave inside.

Jo squinted through the gloom, which was lit only by the glow of the hearth in the larger room, which served as a combination living room and kitchen.

Something caught her attention—something on the floor not far from what must be the back door.

Jo pressed her face against the glass; were those . . . legs?

She pounded on the window, but nothing moved.

Jo struggled out of the box hedge and hurried around the side of the house. The garden in back was as neat and tidy as the front and showed signs of recent tending; a small three-legged stool, bucket of weeds, and leather work gloves were scattered at the end of a row of healthy-looking vegetable marrows.

Somebody was obviously inside. She knew the man had been badly wounded—he’d lost a foot or part of one leg—was he lying in there hurt?

Angus landed on her shoulder.

“What say you? Shall I bull my way inside?” she muttered to the raven as she strode toward the door. “I want you to stay outside, boy. Wait for me.”

Angus understood the word wait and he flew off and perched on the eave over the door. There were no windows on the back of the house, and Jo stood to the side as she tried the handle; having shot somebody through a door once in the past, she knew better than to take any risks.

The door wasn’t locked and swung in with an unnerving creaking sound.

“Mr. Morrison?” Jo called out, peering around the frame. The first thing she saw was his head and torso. Despite the urge to rush in, she entered the house carefully, examining the few places a person might hide. After assuring herself that there were no cupboards big enough to conceal a human in any of the rooms, Jo went to the prone body and dropped to her haunches. The man was youngish—in his mid-thirties—and had short blond hair that was matted with blood at the temple, his fair skin already bruising.

Jo felt for a pulse and let out a sigh of relief. He was alive, and his heartbeat was steady and strong. She pushed up to her feet and quickly investigated the three rooms that comprised the small house more closely. The narrow bed had been turned over, the mattress torn open; drawers had been pulled out, their contents scattered.

A low whistling sound grew louder, and Jo turned, dread heavy in her belly. The kettle that was hanging from the tripod in the hearth was boiling, steam jetting from the spout.

It hadn’t been doing that when she entered.

Which meant whoever had clubbed Morrison must still be—

Kraa! Kraa!

A shadow fell over the room even as Jo spun toward the back door. A huge man stood in the opening, the sun behind him throwing his face into darkness. He held a truncheon in one massive paw and a coil of rope in the other.

“Come nice like, missy, and you won’t get ’urt,” he said. “I’m just to take you to talk to—”