Genre: Mainstream Historical Romance
Bio:
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.
Blurb:
London Heiress kidnapped by the Marquess of Ashlund, read
the headlines. 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:
The criminal was alive and well.
Yet, the one man who could have exposed
him was dead. Phoebe stared at the clipping of the obituary notice printed in
The Times five days ago. The knowledge of his death settled around her as black
as the darkness surrounding her carriage. The lantern flickered with the sway
of the carriage as she slid her gaze over the paragraph that extolled Bow
Street Sheriff John Stafford’s criminal expertise, and past the mention of his
involvement in The Cato Street Conspiracy. A man’s life reduced to two
paragraphs. For the hundredth time since she'd first read the obituary, she
settled her gaze on the final line.
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.
Phoebe yanked back the curtain and
peered into the darkness. No lights dotted the countryside as they should have
and the moonlit sky 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. Phoebe
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 and 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 began dragging 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 it
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
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?
They rounded the building, then he
pushed her against the wall, and demanded, “Which of your other admirers am I
dealing with?”
Other admirers? Phoebe flushed. Adam.
She had refused Adam's offer of
marriage three times this year alone, but hadn't considered that her childhood
friend would kidnap her in an effort to coerce her into accepting his proposal.
But if this man was Adam's friend, where was he—and who were the other thugs?
God only knew, but at least Adam's friends didn't pose any real danger—other
than the possibility of her ending up in Gretna Green.
Her kidnapper drew a pistol from the
back of his waistband. Phoebe pressed closer to the rough stone of the
farmhouse. He stepped forward two paces past her, extended a steady hand, and
leveled the weapon on the oncoming riders. A shot rang out and shouts damned
him to the darker parts of hell.
He ducked back behind the farmhouse.
“Never thought I’d need more than one shot.” He stuffed the pistol back into
his waistband. “How many did you count, Mather?”
“Three, sir.”
“Only three? Not terrible odds.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Do you hear that?” the highwayman
whispered.
Before Phoebe could reply, he hurried
along the building to the rear. She took two quick steps to the corner at the
front of the house and peered around the edge toward the road. The brigands
were nowhere in sight.
“Bloody hell,” her captor cursed, and
Phoebe turned. “They left their mounts on the other side of the barn.” He
hurried back to where she and his man stood. “Mather, your second pistol, if
you please.”
The older man handed over the Murdock
Scottish flintlock pistol he gripped.
"You haven't got a spare pistol
you can give me?" she asked. The highwayman's head snapped in her
direction. "I need protection," she said.
"I am
your protection."
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