It was rather ironic that today of all days, the weather was unusually perfect—all blue sky and green, green hills. His new black gelding frolicked in the warm sun, a cool breeze lifted his hair, a bottle of good brandy at his lips. All told, it was a pleasant way to dull the homesickness that was already beginning to plague him at the thought of leaving his life in London. Of leaving his brothers and sister.

Trying to focus instead on the peaceful vista about him, he rode on, drinking more as the day progressed, his pain dulling. He’d just rounded a bend in the road when, quick as a wink, his brandy-soaked peace was shattered. Mayhem ruled as bullets flew. Coarse shouts assailed his muddled head, his horse bolted into the woods, then reared. A searing pain traced a fevered path across one temple.

He fell into alluring darkness. Sometime later, he slowly awoke to the sound of rough voices raised in disagreement. His assailants arguing over the rich contents of his purse and bags.

By tiny degrees, he became aware of the fact that he lay on the cool, damp dirt of the forest floor, left for dead if the blood that ran across his forehead and clouded his vision was any indication.

The earth chilled his cheek, the cloying smell of rotting leaves clung in his nostrils. He clenched his eyes even more tightly together and tried to move, gasping at the pain that flashed through his head, the heavy scent of brandy rising to meet him.

God, what he wouldn’t give for more brandy. A keg of the stuff. Enough to dull the pain and halt the fear that was beginning to course through him.

The voices grew louder. Chase blinked through the haze of red, squinting against the bright sunlight that shivered through the leaves overhead. Brazen brigands, they were, to attack in broad daylight.

To one side, almost out of sight, he could just see them, two men hunched beside each other as they quarreled over his belongings. Chase tried to remember what he’d been carrying—several large notes, some guineas, a gold watch, a few cravat pins…nothing of real value. Not to him, anyway. He’d been on his way to hell, so he’d been traveling light. The last thing he’d wanted to do was load himself down with mementos that would only cause him more pain, more sadness.

One of the men stood, huge and hulking, lank brown hair that flopped in a greasy point over one eye. “There. Thet’s thet.”

The other man stood. He was smaller and dressed in a faded red coat, the bottom edges stained and ragged. “’Ere, now! Ye got more ’n I did!”

“’Tis me right t’ get more. I planned this whole cull, did I not? Ever since we saw the gent come rackin’ into the inn and demanding a bottle of the keeper’s best. I knew he’d be bosky afore noon.” The giant held something up to the sun, and a flash of sunlight rippled through the clearing.