Ahead, Evan sat back up in his saddle, slowing his horse’s gait into a trot. He held up his hand. In the gloom beyond him, I made out the low jagged shape of a stone stacked fence with a breach in its length of broken slate and tumbled stones.

I drew upon the reins, leaning back into the request to slow our momentum. Bruno obeyed, dropping into a trot, until I could bring him around to stand beside Evan and Kent.

“This is our place,” Evan said, the misted breath upon each word curling in front of his mouth. “I would say we have about five minutes before the coach comes around the turn.” He drew a pistol out of one of the holsters and handed it to me, grip first. “It is loaded.”

I ripped off my glove and took the gun, its metal weight heavy and cold in my bare hand. Beside me, Mr. Kent passed his Baker rifle to Evan, as planned, then drew out his own pistol.

“Should we wear our kerchiefs up around our noses and mouths, like all good highwaymen?” Mr. Kent asked. “I would not wish to break the highwayman code on my first time out.”

Evan was clearly not in the mood for levity. “You do what you must do,” he said, slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder. “I will be showing my face. My brother will know who is stopping his treachery.”

Kent glanced at me, somewhat abashed. “My apologies, Lord Evan. I did not mean to belittle your sister’s peril.”

Evan gave a curt nod.

“Once we have Hester, I think our only choice is to head back to Liverpool,” I said. “Ceredigion Bay is too far. In Liverpool you can always find a ship that is leaving on the next tide.”

Evan blinked at the use of you, then sighed. “I think you are right.”

We looked at each other: a question asked, an answer given. I could not go.

“We should get out there,” Kent said, breaking the tension between us.

We filed out onto the selected section of road—a straight length after a curve to slow them down—and took our positions: Kent riding into the trees closer to the curve; Evan, with the Baker rifle, and I ranged across the road.

Bruno shifted underneath me, no doubt feeling my tension. I held my breath, straining to hear the sound of the approaching coach, my vision narrowed to the rutted and rocky stretch of road ahead. Ah, there it was: the unmistakable jangle of tack and thud of hooves. By my reckoning, an easy pace; no alarm in the momentum of the team of four. I raised my pistol, steadying it. Only one shot: I hoped I would not have to fire it.

The rhythm of hooves slowed as they took the curve, and then the team and coach were coming at us.