The Captain and the Wallflower. Lyn Stone

her presence. Grace smiled inwardly, imagining herself as the invisible countess. What a role to play, but she certainly preferred it to playing Wardfelton’s clueless prisoner.

      The question she had to ask was whether she could keep up the act in future just to accommodate Morleigh. She was grateful to him, of course, but gratitude wasn’t everything, was it?

      She had always wanted to have a child, and if she were completely honest with herself, she wanted the man even more. However, she was not yet ready to explore too deeply the reasons for her odd reaction to him. Perhaps it was merely because he presented a challenge.

      The coach rumbled over the cobblestone streets as Grace studied her companions. Mrs. Oliver appeared a comfortable grandmotherly type, short and rather rotund, dressed in her sturdy black wool. The ruffles of the mobcap beneath her plain bonnet framed graying hair, bright green eyes and sweetly rounded features. But though surely nearing fifty, the retainer possessed the strength of a man and the iron will of a mule. Nothing intimidated the woman. Grace quite admired her for it.

      As for Madame Latrice, that one obviously felt her importance and dressed it splendidly. Grace judged her to be close to thirty, very self-sufficient and more than a trifle haughty. She wore a lovely traveling costume of forest green made of fine bombazine that rustled with every move she made. Her black bonnet sported dyed green ostrich feathers and a fringe of jet beads that dangled off the brim. Stylish to a fault. However, the prune-faced expression spoiled the effect.

      Grace attempted conversation, but the woman seemed loathe to discuss anything, even her plans for Grace’s new wardrobe. Mrs. Oliver merely raised one eyebrow and gave Grace a conspiratorial look.

      The well-sprung coach afforded such comfort and traveled so slowly, Grace found herself nodding off now and again. It was twilight and they had come quite a ways when the coach rolled to a stop in the middle of the road. The horses neighed and she heard a man’s shout. Then a shot rang out.

      Madame screamed.

      The coach door flew open and a man stood there, holding a double-barreled flintlock pistol. “Get out, all of you!” he shouted. “Now, and look lively!”

      Madame exited first, then Mrs. Oliver and Grace followed. She glanced around to see whether the man acted alone. No one else was in sight. She looked up and saw John Coachman slumped sideways on the box, reins still clutched in his fist.

      “Which of you is Morleigh’s woman?” the highwayman demanded.

      “She is!” Madame cried, pointing a shaking, leather-gloved finger at Grace. “It’s her! She’s the one!”

      The highwayman grinned at Madame, showing several missing teeth. He scanned Grace’s length and shook his head slowly. “Don’t think so. Easy t’see who’s the fancy piece here. Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am,” he said, sounding coy.

      Then he shot Madame point-blank in the chest. She crumpled slowly to the ground as Grace and Mrs. Oliver watched, stunned. The gunman kept grinning as he reached into his pocket.

      Grace knew at that moment he would not let them live. He was going to stand there, bold as you please, reload and shoot them both! She had to do something.

      He wasn’t terribly big, but she couldn’t overcome him on her own and had no idea whether Mrs. Oliver would help her or faint dead away. But if he managed to reload, they had no chance at all!

      Grace knew she must use the dirty trick Father had told her about, the last-ditch effort to save herself that he had declared every woman should know. Could she do it? What if she missed? There would be no second chance.

      “Sir?” Grace said softly. “Look.” She slowly began to raise the front of her skirt and petticoats to get them out of her way. She bared ankles, knees and even higher to entice him.

      He looked, all right, and slowly began to walk toward her. She pasted on an inviting smile and waited for just the right moment. When he was near enough, she kicked for all she was worth, thanking God for the borrowed ankle boots she wore. He dropped the still-empty pistol, grabbed his essentials and buckled forward with a harsh cry of pain.

      Mrs. Oliver snatched up the pistol and hit the back of his head with the butt of it. He fell like a tree, right at Grace’s feet. Mrs. Oliver hit him again, several times, then stood away. “Think he’s done for?” she gasped, breathless with exertion.