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Groaning curses in several languages that I hoped the ladies couldn’t understand, I dragged the cases towards the luggage rack at the back of the coach. Bloody hell! Being a gentleman was too much for any sane person! Why did those women have to be such lazy, good-for-nothing parasites, who were nothing but a bane on the life of an honest, hard-working man and—
Then I realised what I was thinking and dropped a suitcase on my big toe.
‘Ouch! Ow! Damn and blast it to hell!’
That, to judge by the outraged whispers coming from the carriage, the older lady had heard and understood. Right now, I didn’t care. She could go boil her head in wine sauce, if she wanted!
Huffing and puffing, I pushed the last case into its place and returned to the carriage door, wiping sweat off my forehead. Only when I sank down in my seat and wanted to lean back for a nice little nap did I notice that the seat beside me was now occupied. The girl smiled up at me.
‘Thank you so much, Mr…?’
‘Linton,’ I panted and then realised that she’d just finagled an introduction out of me. Damn! ‘Victor Linton. How do you do, Miss…?’
‘Emilia Harse. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Linton.’ The girl gazed up at me with big adoring eyes. I don’t really know how she managed it, seeing as she was technically taller than I was. Impressive. ‘I’m so glad we have a big, strong man like you along with us on this journey.’
The older lady—probably her mother—gave a sniff. ‘Yes, very strong indeed, Emilia. I hope you did not break anything in my suitcase when you dropped it, Mr Linton. There are some very precious valuables in there.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured her with a saccharine smile. ‘Luckily, its fall was broken by my foot. Although it felt the other way around.’
She sniffed again and hid her face behind an issue of what I’d like to do it. Punch.[1]
The girl—Emilia—glanced over at me. She looked as though, for some reason, she wanted to talk to me. So I quickly turned towards Mr Phelps and started a conversation about balance sheets, guaranteed to bore anyone within a radius of fifty yards to death. The strategy worked. Soon, young Emilia appeared to have lost all interest, and I could settle down for the nap I so badly needed. The excitement of my flight had taken its toll, and despite the rumbling of the coach, I drifted off quickly.
When I awoke, jolted awake by a pothole, we had left the city behind us. Emilia and her mother both seemed as sleepy as I had been before my little rest. Mr Phelps was still frantically calculating, and the other passengers were dimly staring into the emptiness that develops wherever people are squeezed together who don’t know one another well enough to talk.
Outside, a moonlit landscape was whizzing past. With every passing minute, we were moving farther away from home. I glanced at the other people in the carriage. I didn’t really know any of them. Not even Mr Phelps. And it was a long way to France.
Suddenly, I felt very alone.
Instinctively, I leant over to the window and looked back to where the glittering lights of good old London Town were just visible in the dark. A shiver went down my back. The thought of being hundreds of miles away, completely on my own…
Don’t be ridiculous, Lilly! I told myself. You’re still in England. This isn’t the South American jungle, where jaguars could leap at you from beh
ind every bush! This is a civilised country. What could possibly happen?
That question was answered a moment later, when the coach came to a screeching halt, and someone stuck a pistol through the window.
‘Hands up!’ A gruff voice demanded. ‘Your money or your life!’
A Lady’s Hero
Your money or your life…
It told me that maybe I had been spending a bit too much time in the company of Mr Rikkard Ambrose that I actually had to think for a moment about which to pick.
Finally, I decided: neither. But before I could grab the arm of the bandit and slam it against the wall, a horrific scream pierced my ear drums and I instinctively clapped my hands over my ears. Bloody hell! That Emilia Harse had a set of lungs on her!
‘Stop screaming!’ came a slightly panicked voice from outside. Whoever was trying to rob us, didn’t seem exactly to be an expert. ‘Don’t move! Hands above your head! Get out of the coach!’
I raised a hand. ‘Um…which first? Don’t move, or get out of the coach?’
‘Shut up! Get out of the coach, now!’
The ladies immediately jumped to their feet—just what I had been hoping for. Behind their voluminous skirts, I could safely duck down, pull the revolver out of my pocket and conceal it in my sleeve. Thank God I had opted for the handy, purse-sized model.
‘Out!’ the highwayman demanded. ‘Move!’
Of course. Happy to oblige.
