A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley Page B

Italian.
    “Un, deux, trois,” she muttered. “Un, deux, trois.”
    Saint Peter, Saint Veronica, all the angels and saints, come to my aid!
    She realized silence was useless now. “Robin!” she screamed. “Someone. Help!”
    They all waited. Petra realized the women couldn’t be sure Robin was drugged. When nothing happened, however, Mère Goulart said, “No one’s coming to help you. Put the pistol down, and you can keep your tongue.”
    “Put your weapons down and you can all keep yours,” said a cold voice from behind them.
    Mère Goulart whirled, her lantern swinging wild light over her two alarmed daughters, and over wonderful Cock Robin, ghostly in white shirt and pale breeches and stockings, pistol steady in his right hand, sword in his left.
    Jizzy and Solette dropped their weapons. but Mère Goulart whined, “Sir, sir, you mistake everything. We meant no harm! The chickens—”
    “Shut up. Are you hurt, Sister?”
    Petra’s heart was knocking in her chest and she felt dizzy, but she managed “No.”
    He considered the women. “You,” he said to Jizzy, “take off your skirt and cut it into strips.”
    “What?” Jizzy’s startled query quavered with fear.
    “Cut your overskirt into strips and tie up the other two, starting with madame. Get on with it.”
    At his tone, Jizzy squeaked in panic and fumbled with the ties of her skirt. It tumbled down, revealing her dingy, knee-length shift. Then she fell to her knees and crawled to the knife to hack into the cloth.
    Robin Bonchurch watched all three, apparently relaxed, but in command of both sword and pistol. Petra felt as if she’d whirled from unimaginable horror into some sort of dream featuring a pale angel with rippling, burnished hair….
    She remembered other dangers and studied the farmhouse.
    The door was shut and there was no sign of life other than a little light around closed shutters. The crippled woman wouldn’t be able to attack them, but she’d be watching through one of the chinks and know the plan had failed. Would she try something?
    “Put down the lantern.”
    At Robin’s command, Petra twitched back and watched Mère Goulart obey, dark with sullen malevolence. He told the woman to hold out her wrists while Jizzy bound them. Jizzy quaked but she obeyed, clearly fearing Robin more than her mother. No, not mother. She and Solette were probably no relation at all.
    Petra realized she should try to get help. None of the other men had stirred to her screams, so they must be drugged deeply, but she sidestepped toward the bundles near the horses, keeping an eye on the women and the house.
    Her feet found something. She looked down. Powick. He’d be the most useful anyway. She kicked him. The only result was a grunt, so she put her foot on his chest and pressed down. He coughed but didn’t wake.
    “Any luck?” Robin called.
    “They’re drugged deep.” She spoke in English so the women wouldn’t understand. “How is it you aren’t?”
    “I ate little of the stew,” he replied in the same tongue. “I assume that was it.”
    “Has to be. I only ate a mouthful.”
    “Why?”
    “Too much sage.”
    “Too much everything, but unfortunately the others found it edible. Sit back against that pole,” he told Mère Goulart in French. When she obeyed, he ordered Jizzy to tie her to it. The woman spat a curse, but there was still no action from the house.
    Petra moved to another bundle. The valet. A kick to the body gained no response at all. He might as well be dead, and being slightly built, the drug’s effect would have been stronger. He might indeed be dead. She went to one knee and felt for a pulse. Slow and steady, thank God, but he wouldn’t wake soon. She had the same result with the postilion, another small man. She and Robin were alone for now, but at least Madame Goulart was immobilized. She was the leader.
    Robin had set Jizzy to tying up Solette, who hissed like a feral cat. Petra remembered the relish with which