Page 71 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

“Some people reported missing cooking pots, blankets, or the like,” Jonathan translated. “He doesn’t know about the rest. He never thought to ask.”

“Interesting.” Once they were on the path and far enough from the farmstead, Evangeline said, “I take it we’re headed for Nyx Gorge.”

“Indeed. I think we’ve found the Black Death—or possibly your uncle.”

“Definitely not female demons. Why would they need cookware and blankets?”

“Excellent observations as usual, Miss Darlington.”

“It’s Lady Hackberry now,” she teased. “We’re married, remember? Or Mrs. Hackberry? We should have an alias. Baronets and their wives don’t become traveling performers.”

“Only if they’re lucky.”

When they reached steeper terrain, speaking became more difficult. Jonathan led the way, offering his hand when they encountered large boulders and pointing out roots that could trip her.

Her fortitude was impressive. She was breathing heavily, her face red, but she never complained. Even he was struggling, and he was accustomed to climbing. He made certain they stopped often for Timothy to drink from a stream and allow them to catch their breath.

They reached Nyx Gorge at dusk.

“Look,” Jonathan said. “Someone set up camp ahead.”

As they neared the campsite, it was clear it had been deserted. A frayed rope hung loose, and the tarp flapped in the breeze. A water skin lay empty on its side, the cork lost. A faded robe had been wadded into a ball and left to bake in the sun.

“Where has everyone gone?” she asked, pointing at several sets of dried muddy footprints.

“I think someone was traveling alone. Based on the campsite.”

“How can you tell?” When she started to walk toward the tarp, Jonathan asked her to stay back with the donkey.

“I need to study everything first,” he said, kneeling beside the footprints.

Five sets were distinguishable. Four men and a lighter, smaller set—a woman or boy. And there had been a struggle.

Four had rushed the occupant; the smallest one held back, keeping watch. A heel mark gouged the ground. Evidence of a half-turn, weight shifted to the back foot. He knew the move. He’d learned it with his fellow recruits.

He frowned as he stood and scanned the area. “Stay here. I will be back.”

He walked to the outer edges of the camp, searching the perimeter. More footprints, but only two sets. This was likely where the camper was ambushed.

A slash in a tree trunk caught his eye. He approached, running his finger along the deep groove cut through the bark. The wound was dark around the edges, the exposed wood dry and brittle.

“What did you find?” Evangeline called from across the campsite.

“A knife mark, but no blood.” He turned toward her, masking his concern. “I think someone was bored.”

She frowned, toying with the end of Timothy’s rope.

He studied the angle of the cut and the direction of the footprints. Someone came up behind the victim. He’d swung around with the knife arcing through the air—another move Jonathan had learned in his training.

All evidence was pointing toward Wedmore. They had stumbled across his camp. Jonathan would have bet money on it.

The cut was deep, like the knife had lodged in the tree trunk. Jonathan doubted Wedmore could have freed it quickly, so he’d run. The footprints led to the middle of the camp, where the others had surrounded him.

Jonathan clenched and unclenched his fists as his hands grew numb. Wedmore could hold his own in a fight with four regular men, but not deadly warriors. He and Evangeline wouldn’t stand a chance.

“We should find a place to set up camp,” he said, stalking back toward Evangeline. “Let’s go back the way we came.”

“But we will be backtracking and losing ground.”