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Who could this be? No respectable coachman would come so close. Were they robbers, thinking her a duchess and hoping they could take her money and jewelry? The one-eyed driver snapped his reins, urging the horses even closer and bringing his carriage in line with Emma’s. Wood scraped against wood, screeching, as it pushed them, driving them off the road.

She looked ahead and cried, “Faster! Faster, please!”

As Jack cracked the whip and her carriage started to pull away from their pursuer, it turned a tight corner and careened. The horses neighed shrilly. The floor tilted under her feet. There was a loud crack, and the carriage fell to its side and smashed into the corner of a building.

Emma was thrown against the wall of the carriage, her head ringing. With trembling hands, she shook shards of glass off her dress. Then she pushed the opposite door open and tried to pull herself out.

“Your Grace!” Jack said as he climbed onto the side wall of the carriage and offered his hand. “I beg your pardon! Are you all right?”

She took his hand, and he helped her climb out.

“I am,” she said.

Jack jumped to the ground, then reached up to help her descend to the street. She looked around. Despite all that had happened, they couldn’t have been driving for longer than ten minutes. The street around her was not unlike Mayfair. The buildings were grand three-story homes with long rectangular windows, and gas lamps still illuminated the street.

She heard hooves drumming against the cobblestones. And moments later, a carriage turned the corner and stopped. Emma took two steps back as two men jumped out. The coachman with the eye patch descended, as well.

The three thugs strode closer and looked her over.

Jack stood in front of her, his hands in fists. “Stand back.”

The men’s hands went to their belts, and three knives glistened in the light.

“Seems the lady is in trouble,” said one of them.

She shook her head. “Please, Jack. There’s no need for that.”

They were thugs. They must want to rob her. She went into her reticule and removed the mother-of-pearl box she’d taken from the duchess’s room. “I do not have any money to offer you, but this box will fetch a good price. You can have it if you let me go.”

One of them rushed forward and snatched it from her hand, tucking it inside his jacket.

“Now, please go,” she said.

But the three of them didn’t move.

“This is nice,” said the man who took the box. “But we came for you. Sir Jasper awaits.”

Sir Jasper? No. Not Sir Jasper, please! She couldn’t go back to him.

Jack took one step forward. “Stay away from the mistress!”

One of them launched at Jack and rammed him in the stomach. They landed on the pavement, Jack punching at the man’s head. The thug delivered one purposeful blow after another right into Jack’s face.

To Emma’s horror, Jack went completely still.

Emma stepped back, the ground sinking under her feet. The thug rose, and the three of them stepped closer to her. One of them grabbed her, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. Prickly horror shot through her. She screamed and struggled while he dragged her to their carriage.

No, she wouldn’t let them take her. She wouldn’t go back to Sir Jasper with his control and his manipulation and his insults. Not when she was so close to freedom.

She tried to jerk her arm away, but her captor held tight, and then another man took her by her other arm. They both dragged her.

“Let me go!” she cried, fighting against their steely grasps. “I won’t go back to him!”

Suddenly, hooves drummed and wheels rattled behind them. The thugs stilled but didn’t let her go.

The carriage stopped, and a man climbed down from it. She would have recognized him just by his dark silhouette—the broad shoulders, the thick, muscular neck, the square jaw. It was the duke.

Something weightless fluttered in her middle.