Page 16 of A Private Wager
Another shot rang out. It was coming from the trees up ahead on the left. That shot was wide. The next one was not. The pistol ball gouged the wood of the carriage, only inches from him. They needed off the road. There was a break in the hedgerow ahead, a gate for the sheep herders to use. With the reins in hand, he pulled back, slowing the team and then easing them and the carriage through that opening. Once the carriage came to a halt, He jumped down on the opposite side of the carriage and yanked the door open. Shoving Lucy’s skirts aside, he opened the panel there and grabbed a brace of pistols as well as a blade.
“Get down on the floor of the coach! Lay flat. If there are any stray shots, you’ll be less likely to be injured,” he instructed.
Eyes wide, she simply nodded and then did as he asked.
“No matter what you hear, stay in the coach until I come back for you.” Then he was running for the trees, concealing himself within the small wooded area as he watched the opposite side of the road for even a hint of the person: the flash of sunlight on a pistol barrel, movement in the bushes…anything.
He did not have long to wait. A man emerged from the foliage, moving quietly, pistols at the ready. Taking aim, War fired the shot. It struck the other man in the shoulder, sendinghim the ground. One pistol discharged, but he raised the other one in his left hand. It was wavering and unsteady but still deadly.
Picking up a stone at his feet. War tossed it in the opposite direction. When it landed, snapping a twig, the brigand swung his pistol round and fired in the direction of the sound. Without giving the man a chance to reload, War charged forward, out of the bushes, and leveled his second pistol directly at him. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I was hired to kill you and the woman,” he said. “It’s not personal.”
War’s expression hardened, and he answered grimly, “When someone tries to commit murder, it is always personal. Who hired you?”
“Some gent. Looked like you, to be honest. At an inn outside of Bramford,” the man admitted, holding his wounded shoulder. “If you mean to kill me, have on with it. I’d rather die from another pistol ball than slowly bleed to death in the road.”
Barton. Barton had hired a man to kill him. And to kill Lucy. There was only one reason for him to have done so.The title.
“If you will testify to the fact that my cousin attempted to hire you to murder us, I will swear that you sought us out only to warn us,” War offered. “And you will be compensated for your troubles—double what my cousin offered to pay you.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted in shock. “And how will I explain to the magistrate that I have a pistol ball in my shoulder?”
“What pistol ball? You fell from your horse and injured your shoulder as you pursued our carriage,” War countered. “I am a viscount, sir. You would be surprised at what will be accepted simply because I say it is so.”
The man smirked. “I wouldn’t, actually. I know exactly what men of your standing can get away with. He after the title, then?”
“Indeed. But I will not allow him to get away with this. It is one thing to threaten me. It is quite another to threaten my bride.”
“Then, help me up, unless you’re too high in the instep to do it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Barton pasted a carefree smile on his face as he stood in the massive entry hall of Stonecrest. He’d been summoned. There was no other word for it. The estate steward had sent for him. He could only assume it was to inform him of his cousin’s untimely passing as a result of a brigand’s attack on the road. It wouldn’t do to go in with a hangdog expression and give himself away.
“This way, Mr. Warfield,” the butler said as he ushered him toward the study. But when the door opened, it was not the steward who greeted him. It was his cousin—the viscount—and the local magistrate, along with several armed constables.
“Ah, cousin. You are just in time,” War said. There was something in his tone that hinted at anger, though it was well controlled.
“In time for what?”
“Your arrest,” War said. “For attempted murder. The man you hired to kill me and my wife took the coin you gave him, and when he caught up to us, rather than carry out your dastardly plan, he warned us of your plots and schemes. I thought your attempt to dishonor Lucy was the lowest point to which you would sink. Clearly I was wrong.”
“You cannot do this. Think of the scandal!” Barton protested.
War stared at him with cold, hard eyes. “I’d rather have a scandal than a pistol ball in my back. I’ll not leave it to chance.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is another option. One that wouldn’t involve a trial. Mr. Warfield could sign a confession and be placed on a transport ship as early as tomorrow morning,” the magistrate offered. “It’d spare the scandal and offer you a bit of peace of mind. With his confession and the sworn testimony of that fellow he hired, he’ll never be able to step foot on English soil again without facing the hangman.”
“I hate you,” Barton whispered. “You have everything, don’t you? The title and the estate and now the rich bride. I hope you choke on her money.”
“I didn’t marry Lucy for her money,” War stated. “I married her because, despite the underhanded way you engineered things, I wanted to marry her—just her. It will pain you to know that you are responsible for putting me on the path of my future happiness. May that thought be cold comfort to you.”
War turned to the magistrate. “Take your men and get him out of here. I can’t abide the sight of him.”
“Yes, my lord. I’ll escort him to the jail myself and take care of it all,” the magistrate stated.
Barton wasn’t done. If he was already facing the ruin and exile, he had nothing left to lose. When the constable approached him, Barton slammed his shoulder into the man’s gut and took the pistol from him. But he never had the chanceto fire. War held a smoking pistol in his hand. And as he faced him, Barton felt the fire spreading through his chest. In its wake, nothing but ice. A glance down at his shirtfront showed a spreading red stain. He staggered and fell backward, slumping to the floor.
