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Wounded and utterly spent, he could not continue much farther.
How much distance had he put between himself and the men the mad-as-a-hatter, Earl of Highbury, had hired to abduct him?
Layton guessed he had traveled three, mayhap, four miles.
Not bloody far enough to be safe.
A horse would have been most welcome, but there had been no sign of his gray bay gelding. Likely, the animal had been sold. Besides, Layton was not positive he could have saddled or mounted a horse.
Even with his arms wrapped around his torso for support, his broken ribs made running impossible. He could only manage a rapid, faltering walk. He hoped anyone glimpsing him through the vapor rising from the meadow would have mistaken him for a drunken tippler, stumbling his way home.
Eyes squeezed shut and grinding his teeth together against the agony coursing through every pore in his body, Layton rolled over, pushed to his knees, and then used the sturdy fence to pull himself upright.
More rustling sounded from the hedgerow, and a chorus of field crickets chirping to attract mates filled the air.
Sagging against the structure, he squinted at the misty meadow.
Just a little farther.
Enough to ensure he had eluded his captors.
Before dawn’s glow lit the sky, Layton hoped to find a place to rest and seek help in Hexham.
In the distance, several manor houses dotted the horizon, their grand chimneys lined up like proud, shadowy sentinels against the midnight sky. Surely amongst the residents, someone knew of his father, the powerful Duke of Latham.
One mention of his adopted father’s name, and Layton was confident aid would be forthcoming swiftly. Especially if he hinted at a generous reward for discretion and speed.
Hunched over, a fresh trickle of blood oozing down his forehead into his one good eye, Layton stumbled forward, forcing his legs into a clumsy trot. He had only traveled a few yards before he tripped over a grass-covered rock and crashed to the ground, striking his injured head.
Sweet Jesus.
Nausea swirled in his belly, and he released a ragged moan.
It was too much.
His mind and spirit were willing, but his broken body had forsaken him.
The burbling of a nearby brook soothed his tortured soul.
I am sorry, Cassius.
Blackness and despair enshrouded Layton as he sank into oblivion.
One
A cozy bedchamber in Kelston Hall Children’s Home
On the outskirts of the Village of Prudhoe
Middle of September 1828—early morning
Lavender?
With the sluggishness of an opium addict, the man slowly roused from his slumber and twitched his nostrils, while allowing his eyes to remain shut. He ached in places he did not know could hurt.
Severe beatings tended to do that.
He furrowed his forehead.
