Joan could see Morgan’s approach in her peripheral vision, and with the remaining time till he tried to stop her, she groaned an apology and bent down to dust off the thrown man, as if trying to assist. “Allow me.” She offered a hand as Rowles held her elbow. Stepping from him, she wiggled her fingers to the man, praying he’d accept her offering. All he had to do was take her hand; the rest would be simple.

He blinked, as though confused as to why a lady would do such a thing, but he accepted her hand after a moment of debate. With all her strength, Joan hauled him upright, forcing the man forward. With a quick release of his hand, she pressed both of hers on his chest as if to steady him and quickly slipped the missive from his interior jacket pocket, then tucked it up her sleeve before he could notice.

She didn’t dare look at her brother, who no doubt had seen everything. She’d have some explaining to do later, but she was convinced once he understood the end, he’d forgive the means.

She hoped.

The man apologized for his loss of balance, and Joan started to back away, only to bump into a solid chest, yet her body froze and melted all at once, giving her the sweetest sensation of safety.

“I’ll assist you, my lady,” Rowles stated smoothly, his solid form lending strength to her.

Joan’s eyes went to her brother, who was all but curling his lip in frustration as he neared, an icy edge to his scrutiny.

One rider gave chase to the runaway horse, and apparently realizing they no longer had an element of surprise, both the unhorsed man and the final rider backed away slowly and then took off. Perhaps they were convinced they hadn’t come upon the proper targets—or so she hoped.

With a defiant glare, she met her brother’s hard stare. She looked from the coach to him and raised a brow, hoping he could see it under her veil.

Rowles grasped her elbow and led her toward the hack, his own expression hard and vigilant.

A third set of footsteps had Joan releasing a relieved breath as she turned back to see Morgan following them.

In a moment, they were all seated in the hack.

“Am I to leave my mount here?” Morgan asked in an acid tone.

“For the moment. We can send a footman later,” Joan replied softly, keeping her voice low. The hack lurched forward, carrying them back toward Grosvenor Square.

“And while I’m sure I don’t want to know, why in the bloody—”