The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,16

doctor quickly or—”

A huge hand closed on her shoulder and lifted her to her feet as if she were a rag doll. “Nah, I fink we’ll jest let nature take ’er course, Your Grace.”

“Let me go you—you beast!” Benna squirmed and he twisted her arm behind her back, pinning it there. She cried out when he raised her elbow up, jagged bolts of pain shooting from her shoulder.

“Good lass,” he praised when she stilled.

Benna whimpered, her free arm dangling at her side. Which is when she felt something hard in her coat pocket.

Her penny knife.

“Now, if you’ll just come along wiffout a struggle I won’t ’ave to use this twine in me pocket.”

“I won’t struggle,” Benna promised in a defeated voice, her fingers closing around the wooden handle and flicking open the blade.

He chuckled and lowered her elbow. “There, that’s a good little—”

Benna swung her free arm back with all her might, the knife blade leading.

Behind her Diggle gave a sharp grunt as the blade struck something warm and soft.

He made a gurgling sound and the hand on her wrist disappeared.

Benna staggered forward, out of reach, before spinning around.

The image of her knife sticking out of Diggle’s throat was one that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

His eyes were wide and his mouth moved like a fish’s gasping for air. His fingers clenching convulsively at the handle, which he couldn’t seem to grab even though it was lodged in his own neck.

At her feet, Tom moaned.

Keeping Diggle in her line of vision, Benna dropped to her knees beside the old man.

“Hard to see,” Tom wheezed, blinking his eyes, his pupils huge.

“I need to get you to a doctor.” Benna slid her hands beneath his shoulders and tried to lift him. “Help, Tom, I can’t lift you without—”

He moaned and Benna saw that blood was leaking out of the ear facing her.

“Oh God.” She stared in horror as the ear bled faster. Instead of lifting him the rest of the way, she laid him back down. “Tom? Can you hear me?”

“L-Listen to me, lass.” The words were barely audible. “Please …”

“I’m listening.”

He swallowed several times, wincing. “Take my coat, hat, purse, and bag. Check Diggle’s pockets, too—take anything of value.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue!”

She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, and nodded.

“Haven’t got much … time.” He coughed and gave a piteous cry at the pain it must have caused. “South. Go south. If you need help, write to my broth—aarrrghhh!” His back arched in a spasm that gripped his entire body, his face a rictus of agony.

“Tom?” she shrieked, shaking his stiff, unmoving form.

Instead of answering, he sagged limply in her arms.

Benna squeezed his shoulders. “Tom?” She shook him. “Tom!”

But the old man didn’t move.

Chapter Four

Cornwall

1817

Present Day

Benna was waiting outside Lord Trebolton’s study at two minutes before nine-thirty, her hand shaking as she raised it to scratch on the door.

Take a deep breath and calm yourself, Benna. It’s only a game of chess—not a romantic trist at Vauxhall Gardens.

Benna scowled, but took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled. It helped.

“Come.” The earl’s voice called out from within immediately after her fingers touched the door.

The room looked different at night—less decrepit and gloomy.

The man sitting at the desk robbed her lungs of air, just as he always did.

“Ah, punctual to the minute,” Lord Trebolton said, lowering the letter he’d been reading and looking up at her.

It was the first time Benna had seen him dressed for dinner. She had believed him stunning in his buckskins, top boots, and a clawhammer. In his formal blacks he was staggeringly magnificent.

His coat of black superfine was not of the first stare, but it was exquisitely tailored and sheathed his broad shoulders and torso closely enough that he would have needed help to dress himself.

God. What she wouldn’t give to see him out of his clothing.

What a doxy I created. Geoffrey’s laughter sounded more than a little bitter. An upstanding, moral gentleman like your darling earl will never give one of his servants what you want, my dear. Even if he didn’t believe you to be a lad …

Benna knew that was all too true.

The earl cocked his head, the candlelight glinting off his spectacles. “Is ought amiss?”

“Er, no. Good evening, my lord.” Benna made a hasty bow and dropped her gaze.

Fatuous fool that she was, she’d washed her hair and taken a thorough, if freezing, sponge bath before changing into her only suit of clothing—the same suit she’d been