Page 19 of When You Rescued Me

Fanny was right. Hannah’s stomach tightened with dread. Highwaymen had plagued London’s roads for years, but having heard no word of any recent attacks, she’d not considered that her journey to the wharf would hold any great risk.

Her thoughts raced to what the villains might claim. Her reticule contained a couple of shillings. Her spencer’s buttons were etched silver, but she wore no rings or necklaces. She gasped, her hand instantly finding the ivory brooch she’d pinned to the lace at her neck this morning. It had been her mother’s and was the one piece of jewelry her sisters had insisted should be Hannah’s when their mother had passed—primarily because Hannah had been the one to choose it for their mother. Hannah could not—would not—part with it.

“Quickly, Fanny,” she urged. “Lock the carriage door.”

The carriage came to a shuddering stop, and with trembling fingers, Fanny slid the bolt into place.

“It won’t stop ’em, miss,” she whispered. “Not ’ighwaymen.”

Of that Hannah was all too aware. But if the bolt bought her an extra few moments to think, it was worth the effort. She would give them her reticule, but somewhere, somehow, she must hide the brooch.

“Help me, Fanny.” She spoke softly. “Where can I hide my brooch?”

Her maid’s gaze traversed the carriage frantically. “I can’t say, miss.”

Another shot. Hannah froze. Please let them not be aiming at Prescott.

“Get down!”

At the brusque order, the carriage swayed, and Hannah experienced a minute portion of relief as Prescott disembarked.

“There’s nothing for you here,” Prescott said. “No valuables, no money.”

“I’ll be th’ judge o’ that, driver.” There was a thud, and then the angry voice barked another order. “Watch ’im, Wilson. If ’e moves, kill ’im.”

Heavy footsteps. Suddenly a man—broad shouldered, with long, lank brown hair and wearing a black cape, a large floppy hat, and a filthy kerchief covering the lower portion of his face—appeared at the door. He peered in through the window.

Fanny whimpered. Hannah looked away, balling her fists to prevent her hands from reaching for her brooch. It was too late. Anything she did now would only draw more attention to the precious piece.

The man seized the door handle and pulled. When it did not move, he cursed, raised his pistol and shot through the glass. Hannah jerked back convulsively. Dear heaven. If she and Fanny had not been pressed back against their seats, they would have been hit.

“You can unlock th’ door or sit there an’ wait fer me to shoot out ev’ry window,” the man yelled.

Fanny’s whimpers increased, but they were the sounds of fear, not pain. If they took the highwayman at his word, the next time he let a bullet fly might be a different story. Hannah reached for the bolt and slid it back.

In one swift motion, the highwayman yanked open the door. “Nice o’ ya to save me some bullets,” he said, the sound of his voice sending chills down Hannah’s spine. “They may still come in ’andy.” He leaned into the carriage, bringing with him the smell of sweat and grime. Wrapping his large, dirty hand around Fanny’s arm, he dragged her toward him. “You first!” he ordered. “Out!”

Fanny stumbled from the carriage.

“Darkin!” the man roared. “Watch this ’un. I’ve got me eye on th’ other.”

Another man stepped forward, this one wielding a vicious-looking knife. He grabbed Fanny by the arm and pulled her away from the carriage. Fanny was now openly weeping.

“Do not hurt her!” Hannah cried.

“Well now.” The highwayman at the door clamped his hand around her wrist. “We’ll see ’bout that.”

“Devil take it,” Clarke muttered. “There’s at least one woman in the carriage.”

The four Bow Street men had barely made it beyond the crest of Primrose Hill before the highwaymen had made their appearance. Samuel thought it likely that each of his associates had secretly hoped the gang members might make the mistake of waylaying their carriage. An error of that magnitude would have sealed the criminals’ fate in one fell swoop. Regrettably, the gang leader had chosen to stop the black-and-gold-lacquered carriage that had come up the hill behind the officers’ unremarkable hackney, and the men had been forced to leave their conveyance parked a little farther down the road and double back on foot.

“How do you wish to do this?” Stephenson asked. He and Samuel were crouched behind a large hawthorn bush. Clarke and Saunders were using the wide trunks of a couple of nearby oak trees to keep them from sight. Their position offered them a clearer view of what was happening up ahead.

“I see five men,” Clarke said softly. “We are outnumbered, but we have the advantage of surprise. The driver’s on the ground. If he’s still alive, he may be able to assist us.”

“Not if he’s unconscious,” Saunders muttered.

Clarke ignored him.