The Infamous Rakes by Amanda Scott

Author:Amanda Scott [Scott, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The Fickle Fortune Hunter

1

UNTIL THE FIRST TWO gunshots cracked in the distance, the silence of the sunny mid-March morning had been broken by nothing more alarming than the chirping of birds in the tall beech trees lining the country lane and the muffled but steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves as they ambled companionably along it. The three riders had remained silent since leaving the Longworth Park stable, two of them out of compassion or simple courtesy, the third because even the sound of his own voice was enough to set fiendish devils pounding against the inside of his skull. He had come out riding against his will, finding it easier to submit than to argue when his companions—both of whom he had known since childhood—insisted that a ride in the crisp morning air would clear the effects of the previous night’s carousing from his befuddled brain.

The first shots were followed by two more before one of his companions, plump, fair-haired Peregrine, Lord Dawlish, collected his wits and exclaimed, “Gunshots! Poachers, I’ll wager.”

“You’re daft,” said Sir Richard Vyne, a taller, leaner man whose generally glum expression frequently led others to think him ill-tempered even when he was in excellent humor. “A pony says it ain’t poachers at all, Mongrel, but merely farmers shooting at rabbits.”

“Done,” said Dawlish, taking not the least exception to the odd nickname for the simple reason that he had been saddled with it since his school days. His most famous relative being a duke, his chums had first called him Pedigree Dawlish, then Pedigree Dogless, but the name had soon afterward been shortened to its present form, and he had long since stopped protesting. He held out his right hand now to clinch the wager with a handshake, then grinned at the silent gentleman. “You want a piece of this action, Ned? Poachers or farmers?”

Edward, ninth Baron Crawley, taller and broader of shoulder than either of the other two, but of sterner countenance and a leaner, lankier build than even Sir Richard, had paid little heed to the first shots, and none to his companions’ conversation, but the second set of shots captured his attention. He drew rein, frowning as he struggled to concentrate through the merciless pounding in his head. Just then another shot rang out, followed by the unmistakable sound of a horse’s scream.

“Good God!” Crawley looked at his companions, his head feeling instantly clearer, his dark brown eyes becoming more sharply focused. “The York Mail passes through here about this time each morning. Do you suppose it might—”

“Come on,” Sir Richard shouted, giving spur to his mount.

Crawley followed with Dawlish, who called out anxiously, “I’ve not so much as a pistol by me, Ned, and the Royal Mail is always well-guarded. If they have been attacked—” With a grim look, Crawley drew a horse pistol from his saddle holster, whereupon Dawlish, a smile lighting his cherubic face, cried, “We shall do now. At them, lads!”

The lane ended at the highroad, and the scene that greeted them when they emerged from the woods might have daunted three lesser men.

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