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She turned to see the guard pointing his pistol at Nate from the rear of the coach. It made no sense.

Then he fired. The flash of it illuminated his face. The shot spun Nate to his left, and he crumpled to the ground in front of her. Miranda jumped. She dropped to her knees in the dirt and rolled Nate onto his back, tearing at his coat, searching for a wound.

Around her she could hear shouts in the strange tongue and moving horses, but her ears were mainly full of the shot. She tore off her gloves and felt his shoulder. Her fingers found the hot blood welling up from the wound. The smell of it terrified her. Nate’s blood was leaving him. She pushed down hard with her gloves against the place that bled.

She lifted her head to look for help. A man was leading the coach horses away into the woods. Instinct told her the robbers were about to leave. She would be alone to care for Nate with the man who shot him.

“Wait,” she cried to the highwayman.

He turned to look down at her from his black horse. He was nothing like the highwaymen in her stories. His gaze was like ice, like the grave. There was no lace at his throat, no plume in his hat, and not a mark on his horse. The dark brim of his hat hid his features. The moon touched only the black gleam of his pistol.

“Take us with you,” she pleaded.

“I beg your pardon, miss. You wish to be kidnapped by a gang of desperate men.”

Miranda heard amusement in the toffee voice. Miranda knew her gentlemen’s voices. No question this man was a gentleman. “The guard shot my...husband. Please don’t leave us with them.” She shuddered.

“Curious.” The highwayman leaned forward in his saddle. The pistol in his hand never wavered. He turned to the coachman again. “Taken to shooting the passengers, have you, Cole?”

“Go on, man. Ye’ll be paid, same as always. We can take care of the rest.”

“I think not, Cole. I’ll handle this problem myself.” The highwayman turned in his saddle and spoke again in the strange tongue. Apparently, he issued orders, for two of his accomplices sprang forward and lifted Nate from the ground.

“Careful,” Miranda cried. “He’s bleeding!”

“Cuidado!” said the highwayman.

A third man pulled Miranda up. “Señora, ven,” he said. The highwayman reached down a black-gloved hand, and his companion seized Miranda by the waist, and she found herself hoisted through the air onto the great horse. A strong arm came around her waist.

“Hold on,” said that voice in her ear. The horse stood perfectly still under them. Around them the shadowy figures disappeared into the woods. “Cole,” the man behind her said, “tell your master our deal is off. Can’t have your lot shooting the passengers.” The highwayman fired his pistol. The guard gave a yelp and tumbled back from the coach, and the highwayman turned and galloped into the woods.

To find the true happiness she seeks in marriage, the husband hunter must distinguish between the attentions of two very different suitors. Both gentlemen depend on keen observation for the success of their wooing. The first is the courtier, the man who has made a study of pleasing his company. He knows how to flatter delicately and how to please the husband hunter’s tastes and preferences. He knows that she prefers the lemon tart to the macaroon, the violet to the primrose, a country dance to a quadrille. The other is the man of action. He never flatters. He appears indifferent to her preferences. He simply procures an umbrella in the rain or a chair when he sees her fatigued. He checks the girth of her saddle and makes sure that she has an escort to the supper room.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 13

Harry put on his scarlet regimentals and returned to the inn early for Nate Wilde’s report. He had a few moments to himself in the coffee room over Mrs. Vell’s eggs and weak coffee to think about Lucy Holbrook and her missing cat.

The long-case clock sounded the hour, and the bench sitters arrived, but not the Rocket. In a few minutes a man brought the news that the Rocket had been robbed again. The thieves had taken the horses and shot the guard. Cole had abandoned his passengers. A wagon had been sent for them.

As Harry waited for the inn wagon to bring the stranded passengers, he listened to heated talk of sending for troops to patrol the woods and break up the gypsy encampment. He had little doubt that the blame was misplaced.

When the passengers arrived, neither Nate nor Miranda appeared. Harry could not have mistaken Nate’s express. He looked the passengers over for someone who might give a reliable account of what happened.

Most of the passengers were consumed with their own inconvenience and united in their abuse of thieves and coachmen alike. Except one fellow with a military set of whiskers, who, Harry guessed, had more sense than the rest. He sat drinking his ale and helping himself to rolls and bacon, without needing to shout or complain. When the surgeon arrived to tend the wounded guard, Harry sought the quiet man.

“First Royals, were you?” the man asked, looking at Harry’s uniform.

Harry nodded.

“Jeremiah Frost,” the man said, extending a hand. “Formerly of the Thirteenth Light, myself. Do you have any interest in this affair?”

“It concerns a friend of mine,” Harry replied. “The innkeeper.”

“Well,” said the man, “I can’t help thinking that this lot has got it all twisted round.”

“How do you see it?” Harry asked.