Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I make it to them, and I am soon surrounded. Intimidated. I can’t see her face, but I’m pretty sure she’s scowling at me. Then, quite unexpectedly, she kicks me with some strength in the chest, and I fly back and land on my arse, jarring my shoulder further. I yelp in pain, feeling the whole damn thing pop out of the socket. ‘Christ alive!’ I holler, my eyes watering, my breath held, my body tense, all in an attempt to stem the pain. Naturally, I get no apologies. ‘Are you not going to reveal yourselves to me?’ I ask, sounding cockier than I should. My request has the desired effect, and the man whose horse I stole pulls his scarf down, revealing quite the hairy face, as Papa said. But still very handsome. Even I, as a man, can admit to it. It is no wonder Lady Rose handed her purse over without protest. His grey eyes sparkle like stars. ‘Your name?’ I ask, knowing I am pushing my luck.
He smiles and looks past me, as Johnny joins us, slipping down from his horse and helping me to my feet. ‘You will get us all killed,’ he snaps, guiding me away, but, of course, I cannot fight him when my shoulder is screaming in pain. I quickly get a last glimpse of the white horse and its rider, seeing a few strands of her dark hair are loose and dangling. She’s either getting careless or she simply does not care. I expect it’s the latter, which defies the point of her hiding herself. But, I must admit, the mystery is thrilling.
The horseman whose face I can see yells, and they are soon all cantering off at top speed.
‘What have you done?’ Johnny asks, looking at my arm, which is hanging lifelessly from my shoulder joint.
‘Better than death, I suppose.’
He grunts and leads me back to the carriage, and my next headline is born.
IT IS DEFINITELY A WOMAN FOR SHE HITS LIKE A GIRL
A gentleman never tells, but he doesn’t mind telling you this …
Chapter 20
My shoulder aches, but the doctor assured me it would ease off in no time, right after he’d yanked it back into place and sent me through the roof in agony. Mama was so relieved to have Clara home and was so busy fussing over me, she seemed to forget what had brought us to my shoulder being put out of joint and Clara wailing like her heart has been broken. I locked myself away in the study for hours, first writing about my encounter on the heath for it was fresh in my mind (and in my shoulder) before moving on and penning the details of Lady Rose’s encounter.
I smile as I read over the headline the next morning in Papa’s study, opening the front page and admiring the double-page spread. It’s glorious. But if it were to have drawings? I pout to myself, thinking perhaps Lady Taya’s mood is an indication that she no longer wishes to work with me. It’s probably for the best.
For the best.
What is for the best? Who decides what is for the best? Because, it cannot be for the best that I feel this awful ache in my stomach.
I continue reading my story, an attempt to distract myself from the ache, I suppose, where I detail not only my encounter, but Lady Rose’s too. It’s a masterpiece, even if I do say so myself. A risk to blend the two stories and make one juicier tale rather than two separate tales, but the bigger the risk …
I reach up to my chest where she planted a precise kick, falling into thought. Black hair. Long lashes.
The door opens and Dalton appears. ‘His Grace the Duke of Chester,’ he declares, backing out as Johnny paces in, looking no less irritated than yesterday. He slaps a copy of today’s London Times on the desk. ‘You must stop with this ludicrous obsession before you get yourself killed.’
I blink rapidly, as Dalton appears yet again. ‘Her Grace the Duchess of Chester,’ he announces, edging out again as Eliza breezes in and frowns at her husband. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Trying to talk some sense into your gormless brother.’
‘Gormless?’ I ask, outraged. I am many things, but gormless is not one of those things.
‘Stupid. Idiotic. Foolish.’ He waves a hand flippantly. ‘Whatever you wish to be called.’
‘I’m trying to solve a mystery. The whole of London wants to know who’s on that horse.’
‘I don’t!’ Johnny barks. ‘And I certainly do not want to be chasing you out to Hampstead Heath to save your skin.’
‘Then don’t,’ I reply, kicking my feet up onto the desk. ‘And you hardly saved my skin.’
I get scowled at, and it is a mighty scowl, before he growls and leaves, muttering something about murdering me himself. I look at Eliza, who looks torn between going after him, or pressing me for information, for I know she is as intrigued as I. ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, nodding at her belly, prompting her to hold it.