A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

“I’m sorry,” Toby said, lifting his hands and flashing a disarming grin, “but it’s the truth. She’s prettier.” He slowly extended one hand toward the man. “Come on, now. Let’s not do things this way. I have great respect for your uncle, I do. So does everyone here. We can work out some other way to honor him—declare him the borough’s sergeant-at-arms, perhaps. Tell your cousins to lower their guns. Let’s all head into the tavern for a pint, and we’ll discuss this like civilized folk.”


And just when Toby was sure he had him—just when the man’s face faded to a pinkish hue, and the barrel of the musket lowered a fraction—it all went to hell. From the back of the crowd, a panicked cry went up. The sounds of hoofbeats on stone and horses whinnying quickly followed. Spectators began to scatter, though the armed men surrounding them held their ground. Madman Montague had trained them well.

“Oh, no,” Toby whispered. “No, no, no.” His heart plummeted to his boots. He couldn’t possibly be reliving this nightmare.

But evidently he was.

The crowd parted, just as it had that day. And here was the carriage bearing down on them, the horses driving at breakneck speed.

And there, perched on the tufted leather, clutching the irons for dear life, her face a pale mask of terror—was Isabel.

“You can stop now,” Bel called.

The driver hauled on the reins, drawing the horses to an abrupt halt in the center of the village square. Bel didn’t even wait for someone to help her down. She leapt from the open carriage as soon as its wheels slowed and raced toward her husband.

“Toby,” she said, gulping air. “Toby, I need to talk to you.”

He stared at her, keeping his hands raised near his shoulders, as if he was afraid to touch her. Well, and really—who wouldn’t be? Bel’s hands flew to her face. Heavens, she must look a sight. What bits of her that hadn’t already been covered in soot were now dusty from the road, and her hair was blown every which way. And of course, Toby was turned out in magnificent splendor, every inch the tall, dashing gentleman.

“You look marvelous,” she told him, just because she could.

“Thank you,” he said slowly, taking in her appearance. “You look … rather singed. But I’m very glad to see you, despite the fact that you nearly scared me into an early grave just now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking out her skirts. “I told him to drive like the devil was on our heels. And I am a bit crisped at the edges, aren’t I?” She laughed. “It’s to be expected, I suppose. I spent my morning dueling a dragon. They haven’t called the election yet, have they?”

He shook his head no.

“Oh, good. Truly, I apologize for scaring you. I just had to speak with you right away.”

“Yes,” he said, still holding his hands up. “You, and several other people.”

He twisted his head from side to side, and for the first time since she’d driven into the square, Bel looked at something other than her husband.

Oh, my.

Here was her brother. And Lord Kendall. And a half-dozen men surrounding them all with guns. She took a startled step back, tripping over something that felt like a stick—not that she was going to look down to verify it.

“Toby?” she asked in a cautious voice. “What’s going on?”

“Well, you see—”

A big red-faced man poked Toby in the chest with the barrel of a musket. “What’s going on is that we have guns. And you’ll listen to us.”

“I don’t think so,” Bel said, turning to stare up at the man. “I’ve just traveled three hours by carriage at a thundering clip”—she turned to her husband—“and Toby, you know how I hate traveling by carriage.”

“Yes,” he said, flashing a gorgeous smile. “I know.”

She turned back to the man with a gun. “Anyhow, I’ve suffered through three hours of torment just to speak with my husband, and guns or no guns, he’s going to listen to me.”

“Bel,” Gray said in a low voice, “perhaps you should—”

“Dolly, please don’t take this the wrong way. But why are you even here?”

“I’ve been asking him the same thing,” Toby said.

“As have I,” Lord Kendall said dryly. “Perhaps we’d have received a more satisfactory answer if we called him Dolly.”

“Dolly?” A few of the men with guns began to snicker.

Bel clenched her hands into fists and dropped her gaze to the ground. Why was it that whenever she had something important to say, the people around her couldn’t stop laughing?

Her eyes caught on Toby’s walking stick, where it lay at her feet. That must have been what she’d tripped over earlier.

“Enough,” the red-faced man shouted.

The laughter ceased.

The man continued, “Beggin’ pardon, my lady, but Sir Toby doesn’t have time to listen to you just now. Sir Toby is going to make his way onto that hustings platform and make a little announcement. Or else.”

“Or else what?” Bel asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? Or else I’ll shoot him,” the man ground out, jabbing Toby again with the gun.

“Oh, please,” Bel said, rolling her eyes. “You’re not going to shoot anyone.”

“My lady,” he snarled, his face reddening further, “I suggest you go back to your—”