“Very well, let us have our minute of silence. Heaven forbid we get stuck in a thunderstorm.”
The bustle of Grosvenor Square continued outside as the two of them sat quietly for a brief moment.
“There. That should suffice.” The duchess frowned. “No sign of any outriders. I did mention it to Sebastien, but the wretch must have forgotten. Never mind. John has a blunderbuss under his seat.” She rapped smartly on the carriage roof with her walking cane. “Onward!”
They lumbered out of the mews and into Grosvenor Square, with its well-tended central garden lined with smart black-painted railings. Each resident of the stately houses which faced the square had a key to unlock the private gate and gain access to the garden.
The carriage soon turned onto Park Lane, then headedwest toward the Knightsbridge turnpike. Buildings gave way to fields and trees and a chill wind blew through the cracks between the door and window.
The dowager’s country estate lay several hours’ drive to the west of London. Anya watched the changing landscape with interest. When she and Elizaveta had crossed from Belgium and made their way to London last year, they’d been too tired and worried to take note of the scenery. And since arriving, they hadn’t had enough money to venture from the capital.
A flock of sheep clustered together to shelter from the wind. Perhaps winter was coming early this year? Charlotte had said that England didn’t experience such impressive snowfall as Russia, but Anya liked being warm, so that didn’t bother her at all.
The idea that she might never return to her native land elicited a brief, wistful pang of homesickness. She quashed it. She’d made the right decision. However difficult life was here, however reduced their circumstances, she and Elizaveta were safe.
Or at least, they had been. Was Vasili’s presence in London merely coincidental? Or had he received some clue that she was hiding here? Anya shivered at the possibility. She was glad to be leaving London.
They passed Hammersmith, then a public house called the Dog and Duck and rumbled onto the vast, lonely stretch of moorland known as Hounslow Heath. The sky had grown steadily darker, bringing a gloom to the landscape that matched Anya’s brooding thoughts.
She sent a fond glance over at the dowager, who had fallen asleep, her head propped against the corner of the padded seat, her mouth slightly open in repose.
It began to rain, and Anya cursed quietly. Russians believed that rain on the day of your trip was good luck, but muddy roads would make the journey even slower.The clouds seemed to have come down almost to the ground; they formed a mist that made it difficult to see.
A cry of alarm sounded from above. A crack like thunder rent the air, and the carriage gave a sharp jolt. The horses reared in the traces, whinnying in distress, and the dowager jerked awake with a start. Anya grabbed the leather strap by the window to steady herself as the carriage lurched and rocked on its springs.
She squinted through the rain-spattered window and saw three men on horseback burst from the trees and thunder down the hill toward them. Her heart seized in fright. All three of them were wearing hats pulled down low, with scarves tied over their faces to disguise their identity. Each one carried a firearm.
John’s blunderbuss discharged above them with a deafening roar.
“What on earth is going on?” the dowager demanded.
“Footpads, ma’am,” shouted the coachman. Metal clicked as he struggled to reload. “Three o’ the devils, coming down fast.” Another shot rang out, this time from the brigands, and a sound like gravel flung against the carriage panels made Anya duck instinctively. John cursed. “Hit, b’gad!”
“Good heavens!” the dowager cried. “John, are you shot?”
“Aye, ma’am! But ’tis only me arm. I’m—”
The three assailants were upon them before he could say more.
“Stand and deliver!” the nearest one bellowed, wheeling his horse. His two companions positioned themselves on the opposite side of the coach, their weapons at the ready.
The dowager stiffened in outrage. “Well,really!”
Anya’s heart was thundering, but she almost smiled at the older woman’s disgruntled tone. The dowager gavean irritated sigh, as if being held up on the King’s Highway was a regular inconvenience. She reached down between the cushions and pulled out a small drawstring purse. “So much for your minute of silence, my girl. Highwaymen! Don’t worry. I keep a small amount of silver for just such an eventuality. Pull down the window.”
An icy blast of rain splattered Anya’s face as she slid down the glass. The dowager tossed the purse out of the window, where it landed with a dull chink in front of the hooves of the leader’s mount.
“There,” she called out crossly. “There was no reason to injure my coachman, you brute.”
While the other two robbers kept their weapons trained on the coach, the leader dismounted and scooped up the purse. He weighed it in his hand, silently assessing its value, then slipped it into the folds of his dirty brown jacket.
The dowager spoke again. “Now, I’m sure you fine gentlemen have homes to go to, and I very much dislike being kept out here in the cold. Move aside.”
Anya held her breath, hoping the ordeal was over, but the leader shook his head.
“No. Out of the coach.”
Anya frowned. The man’s voice was thick, his vowels slurred. Was he drunk? A cold shiver of fear slid down her spine. Get out? That wasn’t usual, was it? Surely robbery wasallthese ruffians had in mind and nothing worse?
