Page 74 of Prince of Scandal

Ashton turned and smiled tightly at Lansbury. The duke was valiantly attempting to present a calm façade, but while attempting to stuff a satchel full with brandy flasks, bandages, and a thick coil of rope, he’d dropped several items and cursed each time. “Either or, really, Your Grace. I think it prudent to have both, especially when we don’t know where we’ll meet him.”

“Agreed. Don’t want anyone shooting a pistol in a crowded room and so forth. We need to be as discreet about this as possible, even if I would much prefer a public spectacle. What Osbourne has done…makes me long for the days of hung, drawn, and quartered. Not sure him dancing on the wind at Tyburn will be enough for me.”

Or me.

Trying to remain stoic, Ashton rubbed a hand across his face. “Are the others ready? We cannot let Osbourne’s carriage get too far ahead.”

A comforting hand clapped his shoulder. “You’ll catch them,” said Sir Alan. “Then this chap will regret the day he was born. Blossom’s swaying between tears and an urge to scratch his eyes out; she was not at all pleased to be told she must stay here with me.”

Ashton had some sympathy with that, but Phoebe wasn’t a confident rider and they needed to make the fastest pace possible to catch the carriage. Every moment mattered.

He glanced once more at the small wooden clock on the mantelpiece. No one was wasting time, and everything being prepared was essential for the mission, yet it still felt like he swam in molasses waiting for this to be underway. Where was Georgiana right now? Had the major manhandled her? Withheld food? The not knowing was clawing at his mind.

Taking several deep breaths, Ashton turned to Northam. “Do we know which way they are likely to have gone? I’m not at all familiar with roads going north.”

The viscount looked up from where he was checking a collection of pistols and daggers of various sizes. There was a cold matter-of-factness in the younger man’s competence and manner today that was supremely comforting, far more than any words could be. This was an experienced hunter preparing to stalk his prey, and he would be dissuaded by nothing. “I have a copy of John Cary’s New Itinerary with roads and maps, inns, country houses and so forth. However, I cannot imagine Osbourne taking any way other than the Great North Road. It’s by far the best and most likely to be passable for carriages at this time of the year.”

“I see. Lots of places to stay or have a meal?”

“Yes,” said Northam. “Also change horses, or get repairs done. He’ll definitely do the journey in stages; even abducting a woman he won’t neglect his creature comforts. Especially with purses of my father’s money. Makes him much easier to track and kill.”

“I thought we weren’t killing Osbourne,” said Lansbury, as he finished packing his satchel then swung it up onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, we’re definitely doing that. My superiors noted that the major upped the stakes, so therefore must face the harshest consequences. We have officially unofficial permission to proceed with whatever methods necessary.”

Somehow, Ashton muffled a snort.

Officially unofficial. How very English.

“Beg pardon, Your Highness. I took the liberty of packing some supplies. Including fresh strudel for Her Highness,” said Franz, clicking his heels and handing over a bulging waterproof satchel.

Ashton almost smiled. It might be the most defiant thing his manservant had ever said, referring to Georgiana in that manner despite them not being married or having permission from the king. But in Franz’s mind, it was already so and he had adjusted his manner accordingly. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

A quarter hour later, he, Northam, Lansbury and Carr, plus the outriders, were ready to depart. While he sat atop Donner, who was currently mirroring his mood and impatiently pawing the ground at every second of delay, the other men were mounted on equally good horses built for stamina, and this brought him further relief. They would catch Osbourne. The wretched bastard wouldn’t get far at all. And unlike the major, they wouldn’t stop for creature comforts.

“How far behind do you think we are?” Ashton asked Northam quietly.

The viscount grimaced as he adjusted a saddlebag to ensure the weight was evenly distributed. “Hard to say exactly. One on hand, they were on the road during the time it took for Miss March to free herself and my father, rush back here and alert you, for us to assemble our little army, and load up. On the other hand, it has been raining, so a carriage will be slower than the average eight miles per hour. Plus, I know from personal experience that Osbourne is a fucking terrible traveler, always wanting to stop for tea or a leg stretch or a proper meal. So it could be anywhere from ten to thirty miles…yes, I know that’s not overly helpful.”

His heart sank. Thirty goddamned miles. On another occasion that wouldn’t be much at all, but today it seemed more like the distance to the moon. Even with the very best mounts, they could probably only ride about twenty miles before a change of horses was required. Then they would have to hire whatever could be found.

Damn Osbourne to hell.

“Come on,” called Ashton sharply. “Let’s go.”

The first part of the journey was perhaps the most infuriating; crossing London from their starting point of Wigmore Street, past Russell and Brunswick Squares, Sadler’s Wells theater, then finally up to the Angel Inn. The Great North Road officially started in Saint John’s Street, where the stagecoaches collected passengers, goods, and mail, and while he thanked all providence they could avoid that nerve-shattering chaos, this wasn’t much better. It didn’t matter how fine the horses available were with this amount of people and vehicles about; being forced into a slow trot for three miles was frustrating beyond measure.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

Muttering a string of Prussian curses, and trying to ignore the light rain and sharp wind whipping at his face, Ashton could only put his head down and follow Northam’s lead. While he knew this section of the journey at least, once they left Greater London, he would be as clueless as a newborn babe. No prince could rescue his damsel in distress when he didn’t bloody know where he was going.

Damn Osbourne to hell twice and thrice.

These would be the longest hours in history. And all he could do was ride hard and pray.

* * *

Something about sharing a rocking, jolting carriage with Rupert turned seconds into hours.