The bourdaloue looked like nothing so much as a gravy boat. “Over half a dozen, I think.” Her gaze dropped to the bourdaloue still in Messalina’s hands, and she added more prosaically, “Oh, let me take that.” “I don’t know, miss,” Bartlett replied shakily. “How many highwaymen are there?” Messalina demanded. The carriage rocked as if something large had been thrown against it.
Then the door slammed shut on the sounds of shouts, gunfire, and whinnying horses.īartlett, normally a sturdy, practical woman, looked at Messalina with wide eyes. Hawthorne’s savage face, his wicked black eyes glittering as he ordered, “ Stay.” The carriage door flew open, and Bartlett was shoved inside. She swallowed as she strained to hear any sound. Outside the carriage it was ominously quiet, as if the shouted order, “Stand and deliver!” had stilled everyone there as well. Hawthorne, having stepped out to give her privacy not two minutes before. She stood awkwardly in the carriage, both her maid, Bartlett, and her uncle’s wicked factotum, Mr.
Messalina Greycourt froze, the last drops of her urine tinkling into the pretty china bourdaloue she held between her legs. However, whilst emptying one’s bladder is a particularly bad time. There is never a good time to be accosted by highwaymen. There once was a jolly tinker who tramped up and down the land selling his wares.…
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