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Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: KDP
Type: Fiction
Pages: 218
Copyright: Jan 9, 2023
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
A recipe for intrigue and love:
A young woman determined to find her father’s killer.
An agent of the Crown who feels obligated to protect her.
Miss Marcie Woodforde’s nightmare begins when her father is shot by a traitor. Only moments before he dies, he charges Marcie to find the Earl of Campden and warn him that his life is in imminent danger. As luck would have it, she encounters Campden at an inn in Dover when he saves her from the advances of a drunkard. Afterwards, she refuses to docilely accept the Earl’s word to find her father’s killer. Instead, she defies the Earl and pursues bold steps to expose the murderer, only to find herself caught up in a web of intrigue—and in danger of losing her life as well as her heart.
Ethan Hardy, Earl of Campden, is an agent of the Crown pursing a British traitor. Returning from France, he encounters the distraught Miss Woodforde and learns she bares a message from her dying father that someone is out to kill him. Feeling obligated to protect the young woman, he leaves her in the care of his godmother, the Dowager Countess of Drummond, who takes Miss Woodforde under her wing. But the aggravating Miss Woodforde refuses to leave the investigation to him. As she meddles in the hunt for her father’s killer, Ethan worries for her safety as her efforts to find the killer bring her closer to danger. Can he protect her from the traitor? For that matter, can he protect his heart from succumbing to her charms?
Excerpt
Prologue
Rye, East Sussex, England
Fall, 1812
Geoffrey Woodforde, the Baron Beckley, turned off the main road leading to Rye and led his mount down a weedy track. Small woods on both sides hemmed in the rutted lane before a clearing opened and exposed a stone cottage and old barn.
“There it is,” Davie, Beckley’s young groom said, gesturing toward a dilapidated cottage.
“You’re sure that’s the one?” Beckley asked.
“Aye, the old Smythes’ place. Heard say strangers come visiting it every couple a weeks. Don’t stay long, though.”
“Look around these woods, Davie. Check for any telltale signs of recent visitors.”
“Don’t you want me to come with you, milord?”
“Place looks empty. I’ll take a quick look and meet up with you on the north road.”
As Davie urged his horse into the woods, the Baron shook his head. John Smythe and his family abandoned the cottage after a drought in ’04 and immigrated to America. He’d been remiss not finding another tenant to take it over long before now. Maybe a soldier returning from the war would want it.
Nearing the cottage, Beckley reined in his mount and eyed the evidence of recent hooves etched in the rutted lane after last night’s rain that led to a lean-to attached at the side of the house.
Dismounting, Beckley cautiously made his way up the rough walkway. He noticed the front door was slightly ajar, hanging half off its hinges. Edging closer, he heard voices.
“How much longer will you be?”
“What’s it to you? You’ll get your money.”
“They’re expecting me to deliver the dispatch to the Argus before it sails on tonight’s tide.”
“The cutter will wait for you. There’s more here than I expected. I’m almost done.”
“I got you all the information you wanted.”
“This verifies what you said about the Earl of Campden. Says here he’s expected to return to Dover any day. If so, doesn’t allow much time to plan his demise.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Beckley saw a shadow move across the inside of the front window.
“What the deuce, there’s a horse out front.”
Realizing he’d been discovered, Beckley decided to take whoever it was by surprise and rushed in. The smaller of two men stared wide-eyed at him while the other sitting at a scared kitchen table with papers strewn about rose with a menacing glare.
“What going on here?” Beckley demanded. He recognized the man by the table, but before he could utter another word, the man pulled a pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat, aimed the barrel at him and fired.
Beckley’s chest felt like it had exploded as he dropped to his knees, then fell face down, fighting a dark veil blurring his vision. Someone viciously kicked him in the side. Barely conscious, he didn’t react.
“Deuce take it, you’ve killed him,” the smaller man’s voice held a note of fear. “Who is he?”
“Lord Beckley.” The gunman emitted an evil chuckle standing over the Baron. “Now he’ll tell no tales.”
“They’ll search high and low to find who killed a nobleman.”
“Won’t be our problem, though we ought to find somewhere else to meet.”
“No, I’ve had enough.”
“Getting cold feet?”
Beckley heard the rustle of papers being gathered.
“I didn’t sign up to hang for killing a member of the peerage.”
“Leave those dispatches.” The metallic click of a cocked gun sounded.
“No, nooo.”
“Sorry, Jones, loose ends cause trouble.”
A shot rang out, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Beckley heard more rustling of papers, then heavy footsteps as the shooter left the cottage before the veil of darkness finally claimed him.
Chapter 1
The Honorable Marcie Woodforde sat at the trestle table in the library, going over next week’s menus when she heard a commotion in the hall. Gathering the notes in a neat pile, she hurried out into the hall as Davie led two farmers carrying her father on a makeshift stretcher toward the drawing room.
“Already sent for the Doc,” Davie called out to the butler.
Marcie raced to the stretcher and gasped. Her father’s vest lay open, exposing his white linen shirt drenched in blood. “Dear Lord, what happened?” she asked, looking from Davie to the two farmers.
“It’s my fault,” Davie said in a trembling voice. “I told his lordship about them rumors going about.”
“What rumors?”
“Some men been using the old Smythe farm. We went to check it out. When we got there, milord told me to check the woods for anything suspicious. So I did, and it weren’t too much longer before I heard two gunshots, not close together, mind you. I raced back to the cottage and found milord shot. Another man was there, too. Kilt dead with a bullet to his head.”
A low moan escaped the Baron, and Marcie grabbed his hand. “Papa, we’ve sent for Doctor Ferguson. Please, do not try to move.”
“Marcie,” he moaned.
“I am here, Papa. Don’t talk, save your strength,” she begged.
His hand tightened around hers. “Listen . . . Marcie. Promise . . . you leave right away. . .”
“No, Papa, I cannot leave you.”
“Marcie, girl, you’ve . . . got to do this.” He took a shuddering breath, and Marcie’s heart battered against her ribs as blood trickled out of the side of his mouth.
“Hush, Papa,” she implored, then pleaded under her breath, “Please, dear Lord.”
“No, dying. You got to . . . do this for me.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, Papa.”
“Find Earl . . . Campden. Coming from Dover. Tell him . . .”
“The Earl of Campden? What—”
“Life’s in danger . . . traitor stole dispatches . . . Understand?”
“Yes, Papa.” Marcie ignored the tears running down her cheeks, dampening the collar of her gown.
“Promise.” It came out as a rasp.
“I promise, Papa.”
“Tell him it’s . . .” His voice dwindled to a hiss, and with his eyes on her, the clenched muscles of his face softened. A half smile touched his lips, and his eyes closed on one final, raspy breath.
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