He galloped clear of the trees and bushes and brought the horses to a stop. His eyes when they met hers were blazing. ‘Who did you tell about our assignation?’
Paul. ‘No one.’
The hesitation was slight. Infinitesimal. But the slightest widening of his eyes said he’d heard it. Blast. The shock had made her careless.
‘Who?’ he said in a tone of low menace.
‘My groom, naturally,’ she said calmly. ‘If one can call a groom someone.’
He breathed deep through his nose and looked back over his shoulder at the copse from whence the shot had come. She followed his gaze. There was nothing to be seen except the black birds circling and cawing their protest. She inhaled, but the wind was in the wrong direction to smell any trace of gunpowder and the undergrowth too thick to reveal the smoke. ‘Someone hunting, do you think?’ she asked, wrinkling her nose.
‘Hardly. Not in Hyde Park.’ He spoke tersely, still looking back at the copse as if he could see into the shadows. He returned his gaze to her face. ‘Or...perhaps that was what it was.’ His face calmed. His voice evened out. But fires of anger still burned deep in his gaze. Almost instantly, the heat died away as if it had never been. Perhaps it was all in her imagination.
He released her horse. ‘Time to return to the carriage.’ His hand went to his upper arm. He winced and when he brought it away his glove bore the dark gleam of moisture.
‘You are hit.’
He looked at his hand. ‘A scratch.’
That certainly accounted for their wild gallop. ‘We must seek a doctor.’
‘No need.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and bound it around his arm, while he held his horse in perfect control with his knees. He went to use his teeth to make the knot.
‘Let me,’ she said. She pulled the handkerchief tight and knotted it off. ‘You need to have it looked at.’
‘The innkeeper will see to it. He’s an old friend of mine. I’ve had worse wounds falling out of his front door.’
She frowned at him.
‘I’m not going to let some damned idiot poacher ruin my plans, Countess.’
She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You think it was a poacher?’
He shrugged, but his eyes were intent on her face. ‘What else could it be?’
Surely he did not suspect her of having a hand in this shooting? ‘If you think so, then who am I to argue? I know little of English ways. But I must say that, in Paris, people do not go shooting...’
‘Rabbits,’ he said helpfully.
‘Tiens. Rabbits, in what I understand is a Royal park.’
They rode at a steady canter, past the spot where he’d teased her with her glove to the gate where they’d left the carriage. All the time they rode, his gaze scanned for hidden dangers. As did hers. Who could have fired a shot? And why?
Paul? Surely he was far too subtle for such an overt act in so public a place. And besides, why would he? She did not yet have the information he sought. Did Mooreshead have other enemies? Someone as mundane as an angry husband, perhaps. Or a jealous lover?
When they arrived at the carriage, her groom was walking the horses as instructed. All seemed as it should. It must have been an accident. A poacher. Or someone undertaking a bit of early-morning target practice. Nothing to do with them at all. Yet she could not stop dread from trickling icy fingers along her veins.
She had learned to never ignore those instincts. If she had listened to them years before, she would never have married Vilandry.
Mooreshead climbed down from his horse and helped her dismount.
Reggie came and took Peridot’s halter.
‘Take the countess’s horse back to its stables,’ Mooreshead ordered. ‘I will escort your mistress home later.’ He led his horse to the back of the curricle.
Reggie looked at her. She nodded her acquiescence. ‘Take it easy, Reggie. She’s had a good run.’
Peridot rolled her eyes, showing the whites.
‘She seems a little nervous, my lady,’ the groom said, his stolid square face showing puzzlement. He frowned at Gabe’s gelding, whose legs were trembling, and then at the makeshift bandage around Mooreshead’s arm. ‘What’s amiss?’
‘A shot,’ she said calmly, smoothing her glove. ‘Some idiot shooting in a thicket.’
The groom’s frown didn’t lighten. ‘Shooting what?’
‘A target. Or rabbits,’ Mooreshead said, returning in time to hear the question. ‘The fool must not have seen us. I’ll speak to someone in authority about it later.’ There was steel in his voice. Displeasure. ‘Well, man? Do you plan to stand there all day while the mare takes a chill?’
Reggie drew himself up to his full height, though his head didn’t come much above Mooreshead’s shoulder. His resentment at the accusation was no less impressive. He touched his forelock and bowed to Nicky. ‘I’ll be going now, my lady.’
‘Yes, Reggie. Thank you.’
He marched off stiff-legged to mount his hack.
When Nicky looked up at Mooreshead to chide him for his ordering of her servant, she saw that the good humour was back in his face and his eyes were alight with amusement. ‘A good man, that,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘A very good man.’ Reggie had been one of the few people who had remembered her mother with any kindness when she arrived at her relatives’ house. He could have been no more than a small boy when her mother left for France, but for some reason, he had expressed the desire to leave their employ and serve her instead. She’d come to rely on him and half-wished she could go with him and confront Paul about this failed assassination attempt. But she must stick to the plan and accompany Mooreshead to breakfast. The wound in his arm could not be all that serious or he would be fussing about it. Men always fussed about their aches and their pains.
‘I’ll apologise for my harshness next time I see him,’ Mooreshead said.
He helped her up into the curricle and with little more ado they were on their way. From time to time his gaze flicked to her face with a considering expression and the lines each side of his mouth seemed to become more pronounced. Was he really wondering if she had some involvement in what had occurred? She waited for him to speak. To give her some hint of his thoughts. But his expression remained uncommunicative and his conversation commonplace. Near Kew Bridge, he turned off the road and took the lane to the village of Strand on the Green. He brought the curricle to a halt in the courtyard of the Bull, an inn overlooking the River Thames.
‘What a pretty spot,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you are pleased.’ Gabe took her arm and led her inside, where they found a private parlour ready and waiting. She glanced around at the comfortable surroundings. The low beams and panelled walls. A table with
