"Phoebe Wallington (London Heiress) and Kiernan MacGregor (the Marquess of Ashlund) tale is absolutely riveting." –Rhonda Tutt
"Fast paced and passion filled. If you enjoy conspiracies, romance, witty banter, danger and passion, then pick up this title. You will not regret reading this wonderful story!" – My Book Addiction
Yet no one tried to save her.
Phoebe Wallington was seven years old when a mass assassination attempt rocked Regency England. Her father was the only accused traitor to elude capture. Now as a grown woman and a British spy, she is no closer to learning what really happened that day.
Phoebe's quest for the truth takes a sudden turn when she's kidnapped by a suspected traitor. But Kiernan MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, may not live long enough to stand trial. Someone wants him dead. And Phoebe stands in the killer's way.
Excerpt:
Edinburgh, Scotland
September 1837, John Stafford died
in his London home.
Phoebe
refolded the clipping, set it on her lap, and pulled another document from her
reticule. She ran her fingers along the age-yellowed edges of the only letter
her father had written to her mother, the letter she had shown John Stafford
when she'd visited him in his home five years ago. She unfolded the foolscap
and, with a deep breath, began reading. Her lips moved in tandem with the words
she'd long ago memorized.
May 20, 1820
My Dearest Amelia,
Please forgive this
letter so long overdue. I am well and I have found safe haven—at least for the
moment. You have, no doubt, heard the news that I am wanted for high treason,
and now you know that my suspicions were correct. Amelia, you cannot know how
my accusers make even the most abhorrent criminal look like one of God’s
angels. I sorely underestimated the depth of their deceit. Fool that I am, I
did not anticipate being branded a traitor in their stead.
I know your heart is
heavy, my love, but no more so than mine. It is shocking to learn that one’s
leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power.
Ironically, had I known then what I now know, I would be guilty of their
accusations. Do not shudder. I know I speak treason, but you cannot comprehend
the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been
eliminated.
Would it shock you to
hear that I relish the day I shall destroy my accusers? They have taken all I
hold dear: you, our darling Phoebe and, lastly, my freedom. While I cannot like
Arthur Thistlewood—his motives are not pure as he would have us believe—in one
thing he was right: those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our
society have stolen our rights.
I have a plan, which,
of course, I cannot elaborate upon here, but I must uncover the truth.
Otherwise…well, otherwise, I am no better than Thistlewood—or those men who
brought him to justice.
I do not know when I
will have another opportunity to write. Give Phoebe my love, and do not
despair. I have not.
Your loving husband,
Mason
It wasn't until her mother's death ten years ago that
Phoebe learned her father sent this letter.
The letter, hidden amongst her mother's personal correspondence, had
been folded with a newspaper clipping dated February 24, 1820, the day after
the Spencean Society's planned assassination of the Cabinet. The newspaper clipping,
a statement made by Lord Sidmouth to the London
Gazette concerning the charge of high treason against Thistlewood and his
murder of Bow Street runner Richard Smithers, also mentioned the bounty on
Thistlewood's
head. The paragraphs were framed by a note written in her father's hand on the
sides.
Sidmouth could not have yet known
that Thistlewood killed Smithers. Here is proof positive the noose had been put
around Thistlewood's neck before he even planned the assassinations.
"Why?"
Phoebe whispered. Why had her father been falsely accused and why had he cared
that the government ensured Thistlewood's capture? Thistlewood was a known
murderer, a man—A sharp sideways jostle yanked Phoebe back to the present.
“What in—” Another jolt cut short the exclamation.
She
yanked back the curtain and peered into the darkness. No lights dotted the
countryside as they should have, and moonlight revealed open fields beyond the
road.
She
quickly refolded the letter and clipping, stuffed them into her reticule, then
opened the door an inch and called, “Where are we, Calders? I don’t recognize
this road.”
“Taking
a shortcut, Miss,” came the muffled reply.
“Wha—"
The coach listed, and she slammed the door with the force of the movement,
tumbling back against the cushion. "By heavens."
Phoebe
seized the handle again. The door was yanked from her grasp and flung open. A
man filled the doorway. She jerked back as a rush of air guttered the lantern
flame. Her heart jumped when she lost sight of the intruder for an instant,
then the light flared to life again. The man gripped the side of the open
doorway of the slowing carriage, one leg braced on the floor. She took in eyes
bluer than any she'd ever seen, an angled face, and a fit body leaning forward
on one powerful leg—a leg clad in finely cut trousers. Thievery paid well these
days!
She cut her gaze to his and he grinned. Phoebe pooled
her strength. Understanding flickered in his eyes the instant before she kicked
his shoulder with a slippered foot. With a loud grunt, he toppled from the
coach. She lunged forward, caught hold of the flapping door,
and
hung her head out the doorway, scanning the road behind for the brigand. The
coach was slowing even more, and her heart leapt higher in her throat when he
jumped to his feet and starting toward them.
“Calders,”
she yelled, “lay whip to the horses. Quickly!”
The
coach halted so suddenly, she tumbled through the door, and landed on her side.
A dull pain throbbed deep in her shoulder. She pushed onto an elbow and
fingered the tender place on her arm. No blood. Thank God she'd worn a cloak.
The
carriage creaked and Phoebe looked up to see the murky form of her coachman as
he dropped to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and turned in the direction
of the highwayman. He wasn’t hastening to them as expected, but strolled
forward while dusting off his trousers. She turned on unsteady feet to face
Calders and her eyes came into sharp focus upon the face of a stranger.
She
recoiled, then narrowed her eyes on him. “Where's Calders. What have you done
with him? If you harmed him—”
"Never
fear, madam, he is unharmed."
Phoebe
whirled at the sound of the velvet, deep voice belonging to the highwayman.
"I
promise," he said, "Calders was simply delayed.”
A
sudden pounding of hooves riveted her attention onto the distant shadowy forms
of four approaching horsemen.
“There!”
one of the newcomers shouted. “There she is.”
She
looked back at the highwayman in time to see him step toward her. He seized her
arm. She tried to yank free, but he dragged her toward the carriage.
“Mather,”
he said in a low voice, “get this coach underway. Now."
Phoebe
dug her heels into the ground and was abruptly hauled over his shoulder. She
cried out, but he didn't slow his pace.
“Release
me, you fool!" she shouted. His shoulder dug into her stomach with each
long, hurried stride he took. Phoebe kicked, despite the pain.
"Be
still" he ordered, and clamped his arm down on her legs.
She
thrashed harder. A shot rang out. She jerked her head up, but found herself
tossed onto the cushions of the carriage.
The
highwayman jumped into the carriage after her. “Damnation.” He slammed the door
shut. “They mean to put a ball through me.”
He
pounded on the coach roof and they lurched into motion. Phoebe clutched at the
door handle, but pitched forward despite the effort. Her captor shoved her back
against the cushions, holding her firm as he pulled back the curtain and peered
out the window.
“Bloody
hell.” He looked at her. “Fine time for shenanigans.”
She
frowned. “Perhaps you should keep a tighter hand on your band.”
“They
are not my band, madam.” His gaze was still fixed out the window. “They are,
however, a persistent band and will reach us momentarily.” He twisted to look
in the direction they were headed, then pounded on the carriage roof and
shouted, “Mather, make for that abandoned farm up ahead.”
The
carriage veered and Phoebe bounced left and right despite his hold on her.
Stories of runaway carriages conjured pictures of broken necks and twisted
bodies, and she envisioned herself pitching forward head first into the
opposite seat. The arm pinning her to the cushions suddenly encircled her
waist. Another jolt of the carriage, and her unwanted companion yanked her
tight against his chest.
Her
senses flooded with the aroma of wool and musky sandalwood. They listed when
the carriage swayed perilously to one side. Phoebe seized his lapel and buried
her face deeper in his chest. If there was a God in heaven, she would land on
the brigand when the carriage rolled and he would break his neck while saving
hers.
The carriage halted. He threw back the door and jumped
to the ground, dragging her with him. The farmhouse stood a few feet away.
Phoebe scanned the distance. The riders approached at a gallop and
abandoned
farm up ahead.”
The
carriage veered and Phoebe bounced left and right despite his hold on her.
Stories of runaway carriages conjured pictures of broken necks and twisted
bodies, and she envisioned herself pitching forward head first into the
opposite seat. The arm pinning her to the cushions suddenly encircled her
waist. Another jolt of the carriage, and her unwanted companion yanked her
tight against his chest.
Her
senses flooded with the aroma of wool and musky sandalwood. They listed when
the carriage swayed perilously to one side. Phoebe seized his lapel and buried
her face deeper in his chest. If there was a God in heaven, she would land on
the brigand when the carriage rolled and he would break his neck while saving
hers.
The
carriage halted. He threw back the door and jumped to the ground, dragging her
with him. The farmhouse stood a few feet away. Phoebe scanned the distance. The
riders approached at a gallop and would soon reach the barn that sat sixty feet
from the house. The highwayman grabbed her hand and started around the side of
the ramshackle farmhouse. She started to yank free, but hesitated. Two bands of
extortionists? Why—and which was the more dangerous?
ABOUT Tarah Scott
Award winning author Tarah Scott cut her teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and Amanda Quick. Her favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with Gone With the Wind as a close second. She writes modern classical romance, and paranormal and romantic suspense. Tarah grew up in Texas and currently resides in Westchester County, New York with her daughter.
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