Page 2 of Let Me Be Your Hero
“Well, you are involved,” the Englishman snapped, cutting the Scotsman off before Izzie could learn the name of his employer. “And you’re going to deliver those guns tomorrow, or I’m going to ruin you.”
“All right,” the Scotsman muttered. “But I don’t know that I can come up with the full two hundred by tomorrow.”
“How many?”
“I can probably manage fifty.”
“Fifty. Good. Same point of delivery as last time.”
“All right.” The Scotsman’s voice was dejected.
“Good. Now, let’s get out of here.”
Boots crunched against the bed of autumn leaves carpeting the forest floor. Tamping down a squeal, Izzie scurried on tiptoes in a circle around her tree, trying desperately to stay out of sight as they passed.
Just as the first man reached the graveled path, she stepped on a stick, which broke with a sharp snap.
“What was that?” The man who had just emerged from the grove—the Englishman—spun around, facing straight toward her. Izzie had only managed to get halfway behind her tree, but she had no choice but to freeze where she stood. It was dark thanks to the shadows cast by the branches above, but any trace of movement would surely give her away.
The moon was out, but Izzie couldn’t make out his face beneath the brim of his hat. He was of average height and slightly bulky with sloping shoulders.
“What was what?” the Scotsman asked, stepping clear of the trees. He removed his hat to wipe his sweaty brow. He wasboth taller and skinnier than his companion, with light hair and boyish features.
“Thought I heard something.” The Englishman was scanning the cluster of trees. Izzie held her breath as he turned toward her hiding place. He did not pause while making his sweep of the trees. That meant he hadn’t spotted her.
Didn’t it?
“Let’s get out of here,” the Scotsman muttered. “I’ve a long night ahead of me to be alone with my guilty conscience.”
Grunting, his companion turned and the two of them finally made their way down the path.
Izzie let out a gasping breath. Overhearing men plotting treason was more excitement than she frankly wanted out of her adventure in the dark walks. An adventure she now wanted to come to an end.
Izzie counted to twenty before emerging from behind her tree. Shaking a stray leaf out of her skirts, she hurried toward the front of the gardens. She’d had quite enough adventure for one evening, thank you very—
“Well, well, well,” a reedy voice said. “Would you look who it is?”
CHAPTER 2
Izzie stiffened, recognizing the voice. She turned, and surely enough, there was Tristan Bassingthwaighte, regarding her from the middle of the path.
Two months ago, Mr. Bassingthwaighte had asked her parents for permission to court her. At first, Izzie had been pleased by the prospect. He had a reputation for being a poet of some talent. She had thought they might pair well together—the poet and the authoress of Gothic novels. Although Mr. Bassingthwaighte was not what you would call plump in the pocket and was likely drawn to her at least in part for her handsome dowry, Izzie hadn’t minded. She didn’t need palatial surroundings. The most important thing was finding a husband who would support her writing.
Unfortunately, that would not be Mr. Bassingthwaighte. A month into their acquaintance, he had asked to read a chapter of her story. She’d had to copy it out by hand, as she’d been preparing to submit the complete manuscript to The Minerva Press, her dream publisher, which specialized in Gothic novels. She’d passed it to him at a garden party. The next morning, when a footman had announced that Mr. Bassingthwaighte wasthere to call upon her, she’d twisted her hands into knots as she glided down the stairs, anxious about his reaction.
At least he had not left her in suspense. “Izzie,” he said the second she entered the room, not even bothering to start with agood morning, “tell me you have not been wasting your time on thisrubbish.”
They’d fought about it for a good fifteen minutes. Izzie knew her story wasn’t rubbish. She’d been writing Gothic novels since she was thirteen and could admit that her early works were best left in the box under her bed where they currently resided.
But she hadn’t given up. She had worked hard, and this book was good. She knew it was—an opinion that would be confirmed one week later when The Minerva Press wrote back offering to publish it.
Mr. Bassingthwaighte would hear none of it. Gothic novels were notserious literature, a distinction Izzie actually did not mind as writing serious literature had never been her aim. She’d wanted to write something entertaining and enjoyable.
But, according to Mr. Bassingthwaighte,entertainingandenjoyablewere not worthy goals. There was serious literature, and there was rubbish, and Izzie’s manuscript fell into the latter category.
Mr. Bassingthwaighte was furious when she asked him to leave and even angrier when she refused to receive him after that. He’d attempted to corner her at a ball—not to apologize, mind you, but to explain again why she was wrong. He’d been so persistent that her brother, Harrington, had eventually noticed and come over to run him off.
That had been two weeks ago. Izzie hadn’t spoken to him since.
