The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,25

coloring would look spectacular with the dignified old coach, which, when buffed, had proven to be a reddish mahogany.

Still remaining on her list was a hack for Lady Trebolton, who apparently did not much care for riding and had requested only that Benna find her a docile mount.

The auctioneer called out the bay mare that Benna had been waiting for and the groom walked the horse around the arena. Benna bit her lip. She was a bit short in the neck but was the best of the three she’d seen. Benna was about to make a bid when a small commotion near the entrance caught her attention.

Two men entered and an auction house attendant hurried over. The men had their backs to Benna but, judging by their multi-caped coats and tall beaver hats, they were rich young bucks.

The taller one turned to survey the auction room.

Time slowed and then stopped.

Benna took a step back, bumping into the man standing off to her side, a white-haired older gentleman who’d also bid on the carriage horses.

He reached out a big, work-scarred hand to steady her. “All right, lad?” he asked, leaning toward her and blocking her view of Lord Richard Fenwick, a nightmare face she’d only seen in her dreams these past six years.

Benna looked down into his concerned gray eyes and smiled. “Yes, sir,” she said, not needing to force her voice to be husky this time. “Just a wee bit tired.”

The old man’s face creased into a grin. “Burning the midnight oil last night, were ye?” He raised his snowy brows waggishly and laughed.

Benna gave a weak chuckle. “I recognize one of those men, but can’t recall his name,” she said, jerking her chin toward Fenwick. “Is he from around here?”

The man turned to look at the younger men. “I dunno the one in the green coat but the one on the left is from Devoran—about four miles from here. Viss count Fenwick is the name; he’s Lord Devoran’s heir.” He grimaced. “A bad piece o’ work by all accounts. You best stay clear a that one, lad.”

Benna nodded and then backed in the direction of the north entrance to the auction arena—the opposite side from Lord Fenwick and his friend—hovering at the rear of the small crowd of bidders.

It took everything she had to bid on the hack and not run from the suddenly claustrophobic arena. Thankfully, nobody bid against her and the sale was quick.

As Benna headed to the clerk for the paperwork she kept her eyes on Fenwick and his companion, both of whom were observing the livestock with the condescending smirks of London swells.

Once she was outside in the empty yard she sagged against the nearest wall, her heart pounding so loudly it blocked out the noise around her.

You need to calm yourself. Fenwick didn’t see you, and likely would not have recognized you if he had.

Benna knew that was true. Even so, the appearance of somebody who knew who she was—and who knew Michael—sent a chill through her.

It just as easily could have been her cousin here today.

Benna had grown complacent. She needed to remember that no place was safe from Michael, no matter how seemingly remote.

***

After what he’d learned today, all Jago wanted to do was go sit in a gloomy, quiet room and drink himself blind.

Or perhaps board a packet to France and never look back.

His reaction shamed him; he had never been a man to shirk his duty.

But then he’d never found himself in the position he did now: in danger of losing everything his family had built over the last three hundred years.

Jago finished tying his cravat, opting for his usual, humble mail coach rather than the fussier design the tailor had tried to convince him to adopt.

He grimaced at what he saw in the looking glass—more debt.

Well, he’d wanted new clothing and there it was. The tailor, a man named Boone, had been thrilled when Jago walked into his shop today. In fact, Boone had been the only person happy to see Jago that day.

He knew that was only because the unfortunate tailor had no clue that his new aristocratic customer was, in the raw parlance of the street, badly dipped.

Upon learning what Jago needed—almost everything—Boone had immediately brought out several garments that he’d just finished making for another client.

“You’re not concerned about angering another customer?” Jago had asked, looking at three reflections of himself wearing a new coat in the triple glass. It was an amazingly close fit; with