Page 28 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

Gideon and Desmond suddenly went still, their bodies straightening with attention.

“A carriage,” they said in unison.

Horror struck her. “What day is it?”

“The sixth of April,” Gideon replied.

“Oh, God. It isn’t supposed to be today.” She darted toward the glasshouse door. Unfortunately, tending to Hugh would have to wait. She set down her trug and scissors. “I thought they were coming next week. But it seems that they’re early.”

She was outside, running. Panic iced down her back.

Cyrus suddenly blocked her path, pistols in his hands.

“Whoever the fuck they are,” he growled, “get rid of them.”

“I can’t—it’s not possible. Not them.”

“Them?” This from Desmond, coming up behind her.

She didn’t have time to stop and explain, couldn’t even be afraid of the guns Cyrus held. Clara threw her words over her shoulder as she bolted around the side of the house.

“My in-laws.”

8

Clara pressed a hand to her side, but the stitch dug into her as she ran. Panting, she sped around the house and positioned herself before the front door, just as a black carriage with polished burgundy lacquered sides came to a stop at the head of the driveway. The coachman pulled on the reins, halting the matched gray geldings, and a liveried footman jumped down from the back of the vehicle, ready to pull the steps down for the occupants.

The claret silk draperies inside the carriage twitched back, revealing a face so white and pale, it could have been cut from paper.

Clara’s heart sank, even as her side ached. There was no mistaking that face, much as she’d hoped that perhaps, just perhaps, there had been an error, and someone else had dropped in on her unexpectedly. But as the footman opened the door and held out a hand to assist the occupants within the vehicle, there was no denying who had come to see her.

A hand clad in the thinnest kidskin glove came forward to take the footman’s proffered assistance. At the same time, an ankle covered in clocked white silk stockings appeared and rested lightly on the step. The shoe came from an exclusive cobbler on Bond Street, cunningly worked in lilac leather, a delicate red heel displayed beneath, and topped with a buckle encrusted with brilliants. Though mist still hung over the day, a parasol of pale pink also emerged from the interior of the carriage to shield its owner from any possible sunlight that might unfortunately change the color of their skin.

Mrs. Mary Ballantine always labored greatly to ensure that no hint of red or, God forbid, brown ever marred her flesh. That was reserved for people who made their livings in the out of doors, and she was certainly not one of that sort. Not anymore.

The woman with the parasol stepped down onto the driveway, the gravel barely crunching beneath her foot, as if afraid of offending her with its ill-mannered noise. She gave Clara one sweeping, discontented glance, from the toes of Clara’s scuffed shoes, to her plain and functional gown, to the top of her unkempt hair as it slipped from its pins.

“Madam,” Clara said, breathless, sinking into a curtsey before smoothing her hand over her wayward tresses. “What a pleasure. I was under the impression you were arriving next week."

“London grew tedious,” Mrs. Ballantine drawled. “We needed a country escape.”

“Your own estate in Berkshire is en route. Surely, it would have been more comfortable for you to bide awhile there before making the long journey west.”

Her mother-in-law arched one sable brow. “I see that you are already desirous of our departure.”

“I—no! Only…” Clara fidgeted with her skirts. “You find me ill-prepared to accommodate you and Mr. Ballantine.”

While she spoke, a spindly gentleman of middle years also emerged from the carriage. He wore a sober gray suit, and he adjusted his powdered wig, which had been set askew by the rigors of travel. His cheeks were florid, his silvery eyebrows abundant, and his expression weary.

“I’ve need of refreshment,” Edward Ballantine clipped. “The inn last night in Swindon was appalling, and what they served for breakfast even more so.”

Mrs. Ballantine gave Clara another unimpressed glance. “You are wheezing, gel.”

“A little winded, merely. I was in the glasshouse when your carriage unexpectedly arrived.” Clara also felt obliged to note that she was far past the age of being called gel by anyone, but she dared not voice that objection to her mother-in-law.

“That glasshouse.” Mrs. Ballantine rolled her eyes. “I told Arthur, I told him it was an unnecessary expense, and all for only one person’s benefit. But,” she added with a heavy sigh, “he did insist on indulging you. He gave you this place, after all, when it would have done just as well to bequest the house to us, his parents, who have more need of such an ample estate. But that imbecile of a solicitor said the will could not be contested, and so here we are, standing out in the cold like a pair of penniless orphans on the steps of a palace.”

Mrs. Ballantine gave a visible shiver of discomfort.