Chapter One

In Which Miss Holly Trease Experiences a Shocking Surprise, but Rises to the Occasion

“And where are you off to at this hour, Miss Holly? ’Tis awfully early for you to be going out…” The rich tones of the Forest Grange butler welcomed Holly as she hurried down the staircase.

“Good morning, Ferguson,” she managed an innocent look. “I find I want to stretch my legs, today. This might be one of the few nice days left before winter sets in, and I have a lot to do, so I thought I’d get an early start with a breath of fresh air.” Always quick on her feet when it came to creative excuses, Holly gave him her best smile. “I can assure you I’ll be back in time for breakfast, especially if Cook is baking some of those lovely spiced buns, that I could swear I smell?” She sniffed, closing her eyes.

“You have a good nose, Miss, but you’re very bad at making up Banbury tales on the fly.” He gave her a suspicious grin. “Be that as it may, I shall expect you to return within the hour. After that, duty will force me to mention to your Mama that you left the house early, and she will not be pleased, since guests are arriving this morning.”

“Really?” She tipped her head to one side, thinking. “I don’t believe Mama mentioned it.”

“Visitors to see your Papa, I understand. But in case your presence might be required, best to be here, and ready.” He lifted his chin slightly. “I shall do my best to save you a bun.”

“You are wonderful, Ferguson. I will be back in time, I promise. Thank you.” Pushing any thought of visitors to the back of her mind, Holly managed to hold her eagerness down to a calm walk until she had cleared the house. It was bright, but still cold enough to turn her breaths to puffs of mist, and she was glad she’d thought to grab her gloves as well as her warmest cloak.

Then she ran, knowing exactly where the spot was that she’d observed last night. Less than five minutes later, she arrived at the small hill where the fight had taken place.

Breathless, she looked around.

A natural undulation in the land had lifted this area above the others, and it was one of the few places that hadn’t been covered with trees. The forest had apparently decided it was too much effort to grow there, and Holly could recall many evenings when she, and sometimes her siblings, had watched the sun set, or sprawled on their backs to gaze at the moon and stars on clear nights.

There was nobody there this morning, but as she bent down, she could clearly see signs of a scuffle. The grass was trampled and torn in a couple of places, flattened in others, all quite obvious since the cold night’s frost had whitened the damaged blades and created a sort of map for her to follow. She bit back a gasp as she found, in one place, droplets of what might be dried blood and marks of something being dragged…

Heart thumping fast beneath her bodice, she followed the trail to the edge of the little hill and looked down…

“Oh, dear God.” She scrambled over the slope to the body she saw lying on the bank of a small stream. A man, and he was not moving.

At his side in moments, she knelt next to him in the cold grass.

He wore no hat, but had a thick travel cloak, now tangled around him. A good thing, since it must have allowed him some warmth during the chilly night, and also kept the damp from his clothing. Nervously, Holly assessed the situation.

He certainly wasn’t a tramp or a field hand. His garments were quite smart, with no signs of stains or tears. Looking beneath the cloak, she saw a well-cut black jacket, a cravat that looked as if it might be silk, although a bit crumpled now, and a mostly clean white shirt. His head wound had obviously bled down and dappled it, but she knew that such injuries could bleed copiously.

Ripping off a glove, she touched his hand. The skin was cool, too cool, but not ice-cold, so she took a breath and reached for the side of his neck, hoping that was where she’d find a pulse. If he had one.

And he did. Tiny puffs of mist from his nose and a sudden indrawn breath reassured her.

Not only did he have a pulse, he groaned at her touch, making her jump back.

“Sir,” she said steadily. “Sir, can you hear me?”

He was silent, his face mostly hidden by the arm he’d flung over his head.

She tried again. “Sir,” laying her hand on his shoulder, she gently rocked him a little. “Sir, let me help you. How badly are you hurt? Can you hear me? Can you move at all?”

“Uhh…yes…”

The groaned whisper was faint and weak, but it made Holly close her eyes and offer up a brief prayer of thanks. He wasn’t going to die on her.

“Good, that’s good.” She eased herself down on the grass next to him, heedless of her clothes. “But you cannot lie here. You are injured and need help. Could you sit up if I help you? Are any bones broken?”

He shifted beneath her hand, and she leaned away from him a little, aware she was taking a risk by being this close to a stranger.

“I don’t think so,” he struggled and groaned again, managing to work himself upright into a sitting position on the bank. “No, nothing broken. But God above, my head…”

He reached his hand to his forehead and his eyes closed as a grimace of pain passed across his face.

“You took a bad blow, sir. And you have some bleeding still…” She bit back a gasp as she first saw the front of his shirt beneath his ripped jacket and the thick cloak.

Holly prided herself on her strength of mind and her scientific powers of observation. She needed the first, but not the second, as the small dagger sticking out of his jacket over his chest was quite clear in the sunlight. “Oh my God .”

The man winced again. “Damn.” He looked down, glanced at her, then took a breath. “Look away, Miss.”

She didn’t, but couldn’t hold back a squawk as he gripped the hilt and pulled the knife from his body with a sharply indrawn breath.

The world spun for a moment or two, then Holly swallowed down her horror and regained control of herself. Fortunately, the wound was small, and she immediately saw that the blade was a short one, which had left a shallow cut. The thickness of his jacket must have saved the day, since it looked to be made of a substantial woolly fabric and probably deflected the little weapon. The cloak had helped too.

“All right then,” she said, as firmly as possible, her mind now working properly again. “If you are comfortable remaining here, sir, I can fetch help and get you up to the house in no time.”

“The house?”

“Forest Grange. Viscount Trease’s property.” She swallowed. “I am his daughter, Holly, and this is his land.”

The man tilted his head in acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing, and was silent for a moment. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Trease. And I appreciate your offer, but I would prefer to keep this…this incident private. If you know of a safe place to shelter for a few hours, that would serve my purpose much better.” He gave her a half smile, and her heart jumped a little. He was not at all unpleasant to look at, if one ignored the blood marring his forehead.

“I cannot do that,” she argued. “You need medical attention. Although you’re conscious and conversing, there may still be some damage from that violent struggle, not to mention the open wound in your chest.”

“It’s almost stopped bleeding,” he answered cheerfully. “I can barely even feel it. And I’m always being accused of having a hard head.”

“But…”

“Miss Trease,” he interrupted. “I have reason to believe the attack on my person was deliberate.” He looked around and cursed. “My horse is gone. Damnation. My bag was taken, and it contained some very important documents.”

“I’m so sorry,” she began.

“This was not your fault. What I’m trying to say is that the fewer people who know I have survived, the safer I may be at this point.”

She paused, looking at him, evaluating his honesty, as he began to struggle to his feet. Reaching out a hand, she steadied him as he rose, finding him tall enough for her to look up to, and possessed of what appeared to be a quite nice body, if one ignored the blood on his face and the side of his shirt.

For once, Miss Holly Trease made a momentous decision based on a snap judgement, rather than her usual habits of research and careful consideration.

“All right. I’ll take you to Forest Nook.”

*~~*~~*

Richard Hawkesbury managed to follow the young woman’s path, even though his vision wavered now and again. His chest hurt, and his head ached like the very devil, but she stayed just in front of him, so he kept his focus on her heels, praying they didn’t have to go too far.

His prayers were answered a few minutes later, when she slowed to a halt, and he found himself looking at a tiny cottage that might have been home to a hermit, or a couple of quite small people. Or elves maybe. His mind struggled to stay on track.

“This is Forest Nook. My siblings and I used to play here when we were children. It’s been kept up for when our friends who have children come to visit.” She managed a smile. “To be honest, I also come here now and again, just to read in peace and quiet.”

“I see.” It was the best he could do at the moment.

She opened the door with a key she pulled from somewhere above the eaves. “Here. Come in and sit down.”

He was more than happy to obey both instructions, and barely noticed the little hall with its pegs on the wall for jackets, or the boot tray beneath. They walked across worn floors into what was clearly a tiny kitchen, and with a sigh of relief, he sat on one of the larger chairs.

“Thank you,” he muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes. “This is much better than the bank of a stream.”

She was pumping water into a bowl and opening cabinets here and there. “I think we should clean up your head a little, if you don’t mind. Luckily, it wasn’t cold enough last night to freeze the pump.”

“I…” he frowned. “Should you not call a servant or something?”

“Good heavens, no. I’m quite capable of cleaning and bandaging all types of wounds. I could even set a bone if necessary.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, the opportunity to do that has yet to cross my path.”

Before he could follow up on that particular comment, she was at his side, a cold wet cloth in hand, dabbing cautiously at the upper part of his head.

“Ow,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry, but it needs to be cleaned.” She dabbed again. “It appears to be a small wound, though, and I feel no broken bone shards around it.” Her fingers gently probed. “So either you do indeed have a remarkably hard head, or your attackers did not use as much force as it might seem.”

“They didn’t want me dead, I would suppose. Just out of commission, and without my bag.” He bit his lip. “They achieved that goal. I am exactly as they must have intended. Helpless.”

Holly wrung out the cloth. “I would like to clean up your chest, sir, but I have to return home soon, or I shall be missed and that’ll have my Mama sending out a footman to hunt me down.”

He managed a weak grin. “Run away often, have you?”

“Not since I was ten,” she replied frostily. Then thawed. “But my family worries, of course, as families do. Anyway,” she changed the subject, “there are guests arriving, I’m told, and my presence is necessary.” Handing him the cloth, she quickly rinsed her hands under the pump.

“Please do what you can with your injuries, rest here, and I will be back with more supplies as soon as I can. The sun shines in and warms this room, but I’ll get a fire going in the other one when I return.”

“You are very kind to a stranger, Miss Trease,” he answered. “Aren’t you concerned I might be here to rob your home, or perhaps post a threat to your family?”

She looked at him, her amazingly blue eyes meeting his in a firm gaze. “I suppose I should be, sir, but I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character, and I don’t think you have either of those goals in mind.” She sighed. “Of course, I could be wrong, which will land me in a lot of trouble. If I am, I assure you I shall hunt you down, and show you no mercy whatsoever.”

She put the cloths next to him and gestured at the sink. “The water is clean if you need a drink. There are cups in the cupboard. I’ll bring some tea when I come back.”

“I’m intrigued,” Richard said, managing a grin. “What does ‘no mercy’ mean?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him as she moved to the door. “I’m presently studying Professor Guilden’s Treatise on Local Poisons.”

“Ah.” He blinked. “That would do it.”

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Hawkesbury. Richard Hawkesbury. Not quite at your service, Ma’am, but I will be soon.”

He heard her laugh as she left, and discovered he was feeling a lot better than he’d expected, given the unfortunate incidents of the night before.

His gaze fell on the short dagger he’d removed from his chest—and didn’t that hurt—turning it over in his hand. It was a quality piece, even spattered with his blood, and he was damned lucky it had only penetrated a small way into the skin beneath his armpit, thanks to his thick jacket. Still hurt like the devil, though.

Taking a clean piece of cloth, he carefully cleansed his side, wincing a little as the icy water touched the wound. The skin around it was cool, and the bleeding stopped, so he allowed himself a sigh of relief. If it was going to become infected, it probably would have done so by now, given that it had was twelve hours or so since the attack.

Sighing, he picked up the dagger again. And noticed the letter amongst the engraving on the handle. It was an ornate “B”.

He wasn’t surprised. His attackers had all the hallmarks of London brutes; they were silent and swift, doing the job without fuss, and getting on their way immediately.

And the “B” confirmed it. Samuel Blackstone’s boys. That initial had become a recognised signature, applied to more than a few unpleasant crimes. Which raised yet another question to add to the many Richard had silently posed to himself when he’d been assigned this task.

What possible interest could a financier with an extremely dubious reputation have in the documents he’d been carrying? They simply confirmed the legal ownership and property boundaries of some acreage in the vicinity, known asMyrtle Manor…