Regency Romance: A Race Against The Lord (A Historical Romance Book) (COMPLETED)

01

When Nicholas Barrington, Duke of Winnefield, exhaled, plumes of his breath hung for a moment in the air before uncoiling to be lost to the wind. It made him feel a trifle dragonish, or perhaps devilish would be more appropriate.

Catherine Green had certainly called him devilish more than once during the two days he had spent with her. His rather unpleasant business in Hartford had only kept him for a night. Spending the two nights after that at his mistress' cottage had been a welcome change. The time spent with Catherine, mostly naked, mostly laughing, was a delight, but he wondered whether it was time to give her a final rich gift and bid her goodbye.

He had been attracted to the sharp-eyed girl in Mrs. Wentworth's brothel for her grin, her curves, and her wild ways, but these last few visits, he had seen her getting uncharacteristically moon-eyed over him. Nicholas liked Catherine, but he disliked attachments, especially of the female variety. No. as amusing as she was, it was likely time to end things, and if she was hurt, well, the cottage he had purchased for her and the bank draft he would have his man deliver to her would hopefully salve those wounds.

The road to London from Winslow and points farther north was a quiet one, and even if he was a man who had always favored London's lights over the calm of the countryside, Nicholas enjoyed the ride back. His mare, a Moroccan Barb, fairly danced under his light hand, and when he could, he let her stretch her elegant legs.

When the first shot rang out, Nicholas' mount tossed her head, dancing a little, but he stilled her, looking around to see where the sound had come from. It was likely a local squire out for a day of shooting or at worst, a poacher who Nicholas couldn't bring himself to care about. A second shot came, and he realized that it had originated from the road in front of him.

"Easy now, my love," he murmured to his horse. "And gently—"

He continued around the bend and saw what he most feared. Stopped not twenty yards in front of him was a Royal mail coach, as large in the road as a barge was in the river. From his vantage point, Nicholas could see the driver clutching his arm and the guard sprawled on the road, his gun cast aside.

Drawn up next to the coach was a man with a revolver and a hand inside the window, and Nicholas guessed he was offering the people seated inside their lives for whatever valuables they were carrying.

The bandit was utterly focused on the coach, and Nicholas reckoned that he could get fairly close without the man noticing him. Of course, if he was unlucky, the man would turn just in time to see him, and at close range, it wouldn't matter if the bandit had good aim or not.

Well, I always liked high odds.

Almost as if she understood the need for silence, Nicholas' mare moved quietly toward the bandit and his mount. The man was leaned into the coach, speaking in a rough and urgent tone with the people inside. Just as Nicholas got close enough that he could think about making a grab for the criminal, a hoarse shout rang through the air and then the air was filled with an oddly familiar lemony-herbal reek.

While Nicholas was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened, the bandit reeled back from the coach window, hanging on to his revolver desperately with one hand while he wiped frantically at his eyes with the other. Never one to let an opportunity go by, Nicholas gigged his mare up alongside the man's cob before drawing his elbow back and slamming it across the man's throat. This close, the smell was even stronger, and Nicholas turned his face as the bandit toppled backward off his horse. On his way down, the revolver fell out of his grip, and Nicholas caught it deftly in his free hand.

"All right, sir, hold as still as you can or you might not live to make it to the magistrate," Nicholas said with a grin. When it looked like the man lacked the interest in doing anything besides wiping at his stinging eyes, Nicholas glimpsed at the coach's interior. He was slightly startled to see a frail and shaking man, a Quaker couple, a matronly woman with what looked like a mass of small children clutched under her arms, and sitting close to the window of the coach was a young woman dressed all in black, a fierce look in her vividly green eyes.