We both instinctively crouched. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath misting in small puffs before my mouth.

“I have a plan to get them out,” I whispered. That is, if they were still alive, but I could not bear to voice that thought.

I outlined what each of us was to do, Weatherly shaking his head at each point. “No, my lady. That is too dangerous, especially for you. I heard what Mulholland said at the phaeton. What if—”

Indeed, what if, but I forced that possibility from my mind. The question of how far I would go to save Evan was now squarely in front of me. And the answer, it seemed, was very far indeed.

“Do you have a better idea?” I asked.

He eyed me for a long, agonized second. “I do not.”

I pulled the dagger from my sleeve again. “Then, take it.”

Reluctantly, he took the knife from my hand. It seemed so small in his grip.

I consulted my watch again. If Julia had been successful, the army should be on their way. But would they arrive in time?

“Is everything clear? You know what to do and when to do it?” I asked.

Weatherly drew in a worried breath but nodded.

I rose, half-bent, and led the way. Although every impulse in my body screamed to run across the distance, to find out if Evan and Mr. Kent were alive, we moved slowly from a stand of ash to dense scrubby bushes to a huge oak, its trunk as wide as two men. Every step placed carefully and silently, the seconds ticking away. Sweat trickled down my back by the time we reached our goal: a clump of hazels that edged the clearing. We crouched again. For all our slow momentum, both of us breathed in shallow gasps.

In the clearing, a single lamp had been lit and hung from a tree branch, its light casting a warm glow on the grim tableau below. Mulholland stood with his back to us, his men in a loose half circle around two figures sprawled on the ground with their backs against a large fallen oak, their arms still wrenched back, hands bound behind. Both beaten: Evan with blood oozing from a cut near his temple, Kent with a bloodied mouth.

But both still alive.

Beyond them, near the far tree line, two of Mulholland’s men were digging. Long, shallow indents in the hard autumn ground. For a second the shape did not have meaning; then I pressed my hand against my mouth to stop the realization escaping into sound. Makeshift graves.