“Look at me.” She touched his jaw, drawing his eyes back to hers. “You’re putting everything at risk. Don’t you understand? It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”

St. Clare stared down at her. “It’s not about him. It’s about you. It’s always been about you.”

Her heart gave a heavy thump.

And she wished—quite desperately—that she could see his face clearly in the darkness. That she could look into the eyes of the man behind the mask. Nicholas Seaton, not Viscount St. Clare or some nameless highwayman, but her friend. Her love.

“In that case,” she said quietly, “you must go. I’ll not have this reckless stunt on my conscience. If it should get out—”

“It won’t.”

“You’re very confident. You must trust your partner excessively. It’s not Lord Mattingly, I can tell that much.”

“It’s Enzo.”

His tiger? She felt the unholy urge to laugh. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“He can handle a pistol as well as I can.”

“Not tonight he won’t.” She tugged St. Clare’s mask back into place. “You’re both going to leave before anyone gets hurt.”

“Margaret!” Fred shouted.

“I’m here!” Emerging from behind the carriage, she found Fred on his feet, cradling the back of his neck. She supposed she should feel sorry for him, but given how he’d manhandled her, she couldn’t muster a single drop of sympathy.

“Into the carriage, my dove.” St. Clare opened the door and handed Maggie inside. He shut it firmly behind her, and then whistled to Enzo.

Abandoning his post, the tiger trotted round the carriage to join his master. They retreated to where their horses waited in the brush alongside of the road. Hooves sounded on hard earth, stirrup leathers creaking as the pair of them mounted up.

“Is there a third one?” the coachman asked the footman.

“Can’t rightly tell,” the footman replied. “Too dark.”

“Fair warning, John Coachman,” St. Clare said as he spun his great black horse around. “My compatriots might be anywhere along the road ahead. Gentlemen, all. They don’t take kindly to men who abuse their women. Best keep your guvnor on the box.”

With that, he kicked his horse into a canter, and along with Enzo, disappeared into the night.

“Give me that if you won’t use it!” Fred shouted at the coachman. The carriage shook. “What do I pay you for?”

Maggie leaned out the lowered window to see what was going on just in time to witness Fred take aim with the coachman’s double-barreled carriage pistol. He fired into the darkness.

There was a sound—an unmistakable sound. The thud of a bullet striking flesh. It was followed by a shout, and the skitter of hooves as St. Clare and Enzo galloped off at breakneck speed.

She covered her mouth to stifle a scream.