We stumbled out onto the road, our sudden appearance bringing the four soldiers guarding my sister upon us.

“Halt!” their leader yelled.

We stopped. All four rifles were aimed at us.

“It is my sister! My sister,” shrieked Julia, still seated in the phaeton. “Do not shoot.”

The soldiers lowered their guns.

Weatherly took my arm and helped me across to the phaeton. I looked up at my sister, who, upon finally seeing my state in the dim moonlight, gave a low moan of distress.

“You are hurt!”

“It is not as bad as it looks,” I lisped, leaning against the dusty side of the carriage. I was feeling, suddenly, very dizzy. “But I wish to go back to Davenport Hall.”

“Of course, immediately,” Julia said.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot allow that,” one of the young soldiers said. “Our orders are to keep you safe, here.”

Julia was in no mood for a boy to tell her what to do, even one with a gun. A heated discussion ensued, Julia insisting I needed medical assistance and it would be upon the British Army’s head if I died, the soldier countering that he had his orders. It seemed my appearance, and the fact that I stepped into the undergrowth for a moment to retch, clinched the argument. A compromise was struck: the soldiers would escort us back to the hall.

Under the guard of the four men, we drove slowly back to the estate, Weatherly once again in the groom’s seat and holding me upright by my shoulder. Since the soldiers were constantly in earshot and my swollen mouth made talking difficult, my report of the escape to my sister was necessarily short and somewhat in code. However, I did manage to whisper, “He sends all his love.” I knew it was not much reassurance, but she smiled.

Through my exhaustion, I did wonder where Duffy had gone, why he had not revealed Evan’s identity, and why he was not waiting with Julia, but it was too much effort to ask and she did not volunteer the information. Still, the fact that he was not haranguing me was enough.

45

The Davenport stables were still brightly lit when we arrived, the grooms jumping into action as the mismatched pair plodded into the cobbled yard. Weatherly climbed down from his seat and helped me from the high-slung carriage to the ground, the effort bringing a gray cast across my vision.

“My lady, take my arm,” Weatherly said urgently. “You are very pale.”

I leaned against his solid arm, thankful for the support. The activity around me had blurred, the sounds oddly distorted: a crashing clang, then muffled voices, then clanging again.

Charlotte’s figure came into focus as she ran across the cobbles, emerald gown hitched above her ankles.

“Augusta, dear God, what has happened?” she said, taking my free hand. Her face loomed close. “We must get you upstairs. Julia, are you injured too?”