Page 77 of An Unfamiliar Duke

“I need a gun,” he said.

Dawson limped to a cabinet in the corner. Taking a key from a hook above, he unlocked the stout wooden box and opened the door. Two pistols lay within. He handed one to Sebastian.

“Do you need an extra man?”

Dawson was the most skilled rider and best shot at Finley Park. He was also recently injured.

“What of your leg?”

“Mrs. Frost took good care of it when I returned to the house,” he said. “It will not affect me in the saddle.”

“How quickly can you be ready?” Sebastian asked.

“Three minutes,” Dawson said, claiming the second pistol before disappearing into the closest stall.

* * *

Rosalind felt sick. None of this—the break-in, the threat to Sebastian’s life, and the loss of Mr. Meikle’s irreplaceable papers—would have happened were it not for her. She stumbled on the last step of the portico. Mr. Sellers did not care. Without another word, he jerked her upright and pulled her toward the nearest ash tree. A faint nicker greeted them, and two eyes shone out of the shadows beneath the lowest branches. His horse was waiting for them.

Frantically considering and then rejecting one escape scenario after another, Rosalind staggered across the remaining distance at Mr. Sellers’s side. His fingers were pressed into her upper arm so tightly the pain had turned to numbness. There would be no means of getting away until he released his grip. He was taller and stronger than she was, which meant he could likely outrun her. Her only advantage would come from using the darkness to hide her movements and having a slightly better knowledge of the lay of the land.

If she still had the satchel, she would attempt to free herself when he went to mount, but she could not leave the bag behind. She had placed Sebastian’s good name in jeopardy. And even if he were somehow able to restore Finley Park’s reputation for being a place of privacy and security and inventors were willing to place their trust in him again, Mr. Meikle would never recover from the loss.

Mr. Sellers was keeping her around as leverage in case Sebastian caught up to him, but if he had to cut his losses, the villain would undoubtedly abandon her in favor of the satchel. That was the grand prize. She was merely a pawn. Somehow, she must orchestrate a means of escape that involved taking back the satchel first.

“You’re riding in the front.” He left no room for debate, and without further warning, he lifted her onto the horse. Seconds later, he was in the saddle behind her, urging the horse into a gallop.

Gravel crunched beneath the horse’s hooves, filling the night air. The clouds had finally dispersed, and moonlight shone, illuminating the drive. An owl hooted from a distant tree. The breeze cut through Rosalind’s clothing, chilling her. She shivered, and he clamped his arm around her, pinning her against him. Her skin crawled at his touch, and she shifted, trying to loosen his hold.

“Sit still,” he hissed.

She moved her hand to steady herself, and her knuckles rubbed against something hard. Her breath caught. The buckle on the satchel’s shoulder strap was positioned between her and the saddle. Keeping her face averted, she traced the metal clasp and the strip of leather with her fingers. If she could somehow release the pin from the hole in the leather, it might be possible to pull the strap through—and that would mean the satchel would no longer be attached to Mr. Sellers.

* * *

The time it took Dawson to saddle his horse was the longest three minutes of Sebastian’s life. As Sebastian paced back and forth in the confined space of Tempest’s vacated stall, he gave his head groom an abbreviated version of what had happened in the workshop. Under four minutes later, when Wesley opened the door wide and the two men thundered out of the stable, Dawson knew exactly who they were after.

They raced around to the front of the house. No lights shone from the windows, but the front door was ajar.

“Looks like he left his horse over there,” Dawson said, pointing to a mound of horse dung at the edge of the courtyard beside the nearest ash tree. He tilted his head, listening intently. “No sound of hooves on the gravel, so he’s got a decent lead on us.”

Sebastian nodded grimly. The thought of Sellers forcing Rosalind onto his horse made him want to punch the man senseless. “We must make up the distance quickly,” he said.

Dawson wheeled his mount around, his determined expression captured by the moonlight. “We will.”

Sebastian took off down the drive, with Dawson right beside him. They galloped the entire length of the Finley Park drive, but when they reached the road with no sign of Sellers, Sebastian reined his mount to a stop.

“We will have to divide,” he panted. “The fiend is just as likely to have headed directly to London as he is to have returned to his aunt and uncle’s estate. Unfortunately, the two destinations are in opposite directions.”

“They can’t have gone far, Your Grace. If I come upon them, I’ll sound a warning shot. Perhaps you could do the same.”

“Agreed. And, Dawson . . .” Sebastian simultaneously tightened his grip on his reins and his emotions. “If you spot them first, remember that Her Grace’s safety is the highest priority—over anything else.”

“I understand.”

“Godspeed,” Sebastian said and touched his heels to Tempest’s sides.

* * *