I touched Weatherly’s arm. Time for him to go. He gave a nod and then touched his chest, the flat of his hand covering his heart, his brown eyes on mine. How many times had I met those eyes, trusted the calm, shrewd cleverness behind them? Too many to count. I pressed my hand against my heart in return. Then my friend was gone. A silent shadow in a forest of darkness.

I took out my fob watch, fingers fumbling a little with the silver case, and watched the hands in the meager light.

Five minutes and then it would start.

The wait was excruciating, for both my spirit and the searing pain in my crouched thighs. Had I given Weatherly enough time to get into place? Would he be seen before I could act? What if Mulholland did not react as I thought he would? The tumult of doubt and questions and fear quickened my breathing. Good God, Weatherly was right. It was too dangerous. For both of us. And what if it did not work? We would all be dead.

Finally, the watch hand shifted. No more time for thought. Only action. I stood. Took a deep breath through the ache of overworked muscles. And stepped into the edge of the clearing.

“Mulholland, you son of a whore,” I yelled, “your prick is as small as your brain. You are a shag-bag, a worthless coxcomb. Not even a sailor would have your arse!”

All the men whirled around to face me. Yes, look at the madwoman! I kept my gaze fixed upon Mulholland’s stunned face, trying to search for movement behind him but, at the same time, not give the game away.

“What the hell?” one of Mulholland’s men said. “How did she get here?”

I placed my hands upon my hips. “You are a scurvy, useless piece of shit,” I added at full volume, the last gleaned from a lifetime of eavesdropping upon grooms. “Your John Thomas is as poxed as your God-benighted face.”

“Search the perimeter,” Mulholland yelled. He swept an authoritative hand around the circumference of the clearing. “She won’t have come alone.” He pointed to the closest man to Evan and Kent. “You, watch those two.”

Had Weatherly delivered the dagger? For a second, I found Evan’s eyes, but we were too far apart for any communication other than his stiffened shock at my sudden appearance. And then Mulholland ran at me, faster than I had anticipated, arms pumping, every step promising violence.

I hoisted up my gown hem and turned, launching myself back into the undergrowth. I tried to retrace my steps, past the big oak, jumping over the dips and hollows I remembered, ducking the branches, hoping my footfalls did not plunge into a hole and send me sprawling. Every breath was hard and hot in my chest, a fiery agony of effort.