Despite that, he was a striking boy, and since she’d never had a brother, Ferdinand was one of her very favorite people with whom to have an adventure. He’d told her once he’d make her a countess when he was old enough.
She hoped that didn’t mean marriage.
She would marry Declan Chandler, of course, she knew this with her entire heart. She’d be Mrs. Chandler. Indeed, she’d already perfected her signature.
“Are we expecting callers?” Francesca asked.
“There are entirely too many men for callers.” Ferdinand curled his fingers to resemble a spyglass, and put it to his eye. “Maybe twenty.”
“It’s unseemly to show up with twenty people and not send a note.” Francesca’s mouth drooped into a pretty pout. “Mrs. Hargrave won’t know to make that many sandwiches at this hour.”
Pippa looked from Francesca to Declan, noting the troubled thoughts wrinkling his smooth, angular good looks. “Perhaps you and Pip should go inform Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave,” he said, helping Francesca from the ledge. “They’ll know what to do.”
“I’ll go and meet the riders,” Ferdinand declared, having climbed down from his spot and set off out the opposite side of the maze.
“My lord, you really shouldn’t.” Declan released Francesca and winked at Pippa before trotting after the future Earl of Mont Claire. “Not until we know who they are.”
Despite her pain, Pippa locked hands with her friend and skipped toward the estate. Francesca really was such a dear. So sweet and agreeable. Proper and ladylike. All the things Pippa was not.
All the things she’d try to be for Declan if that’s what he wanted.
They jogged for several minutes of silence before Pippa couldn’t keep herself from asking, “Do you fancy Mr. Chandler?”
“What?” Francesca laughed, a merry sound that bubbled into the spring air.
“He loves you, I think,” Pippa grumped.
“I fancy him a little. He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?” Francesca squeezed her hand. “But never you worry, I’d not bother with him in a hundred years.”
Suddenly Pippa felt a ridiculous spurt of protectiveness for him. “And whyever not? He’s more than good enough.”
Francesca tugged her to slow down and turned to her, so they were facing each other. “Because I love you, Pip, and I’d never betray you.”
Pippa surged forward and enfolded the girl in her arms. “I love you, too,” she said upon a sigh of relief.
“Besides, Father would never allow me to marry below a viscount,” Francesca bemoaned. George Cavendish, the Earl of Mont Claire, was nothing if not a snob.
Pippa looked over Francesca’s shoulder. She could see the men in the distance now from her vantage on the open lawn, which gently sloped upward toward the manor house. They rode low over the necks of their horses as they galloped closer, all dressed in dark colors, their faces indistinguishable.
Or covered?
Ferdinand had almost reached them, his arms waving an energetic greeting. He stopped some yards away to cough, apparently deciding he’d exerted himself enough for a throng of men who would eventually be upon him.
The riders didn’t slow as they approached. The merciless, pounding hooves churned up clumps of earth and tossed them in their wake.
No. Surely they weren’t … she was seeing things …
Dumbfounded, she waited for the riders to stop.
Why weren’t they stopping? Ferdinand was right there. He was right in front of them.
With a scream, she turned around, closing her eyes against what she’d already witnessed.
They killed him! Some of her numb disbelief surged into paralyzing terror. They’d killed him, and they didn’t slow down.
Which meant the men were coming for them next.
“Run,” Pippa breathed, clutching Francesca’s hand and bolting for the house. “Don’t look back.” She didn’t want her friend to see the nightmare of her twin’s mangled body.
It was an anguish Pippa would never forget.
They streaked across the grass toward the kitchen entrance and dove inside just as the marauders broke into four clusters of masked nightmares to encircle the manor.
“Ferdinand!” Pippa screamed as her mother gathered her and Francesca up into her arms. “They … they … the horses!” Her throat closed over, sobs threatening to choke the life out of her. It was unthinkable. Unspeakable. What was happening? Who would do something so monstrous?
“Take a breath and tell me what’s done,” Hattie soothed. “Serana’s gone outside, and your father went to see what this is about. He took all the footmen and—”
The door to the kitchen crashed open, the glass of the window breaking against the wall as huge, sinister men swarmed inside.
“No one here but women and children,” a dark-clad monster with a red bandanna over his face reported in a Cockney accent.
A thicker man in a distinctly American hat seemed to be in charge.
“They said no witnesses.” He kicked a table out of the way to get to them as he pulled a knife larger than any in their butcher block from his belt.
Hattie thrust the two girls behind her, snatching her cleaver from the counter. “You leave these little’uns alone.” She brandished the blade at them, wagging it as she would a scolding finger. “We didn’t see a thing. We can leave quietly, and you’ll never hear from us again. Just don’t hurt the girls.”
“Problem is,” the American drawled from behind his linen mask, “we can’t leave that there girl alive.” He pointed his blade at Francesca, who whimpered before her terror piddled down her leg and spread beneath both of their shoes.
With a burst of strength, Hattie thrust Francesca and Pippa backward through the door to the servants’ hall. “Whatever you do, just live. Live! Get out of this house.” She slammed the door and locked it behind them.
Pippa didn’t just run from the men this time, she ran from the primal sounds her mother made as she fought for their lives, and the screams that pealed from her as she failed.
Tears blurred the lines of the servants’ stairs, causing Pippa to trip as she scrambled upward. A door on the main floor led to a small cellarlike room where a furnace warmed the house. Declan had showed her a coal depository that led outside, which would possibly be unguarded. If they could make it there, they might be able to attempt the short dash to the forest undetected.
She could lose them in the forest. The children of Mont Claire spent their entire childhood slithering through warrens, exploring primordial root systems, or climbing trees on imaginary adventures.
Pippa breached the main floor to the sound of violence and chaos. Even though their hands were slippery with sweat, she and Francesca kept a tight, painful grip on each other as they ran.
Her mother’s words became a mantra, a throb in her head, an agony in her heart, and the strength in her legs.
Live. Live. Get out of this house. Live. Live. Get out of this house.
The force with which Francesca was ripped from Pippa’s grasp nearly pulled her off her own feet. She whirled around to see the American with the white cowboy hat put a knife to her best friend’s neck.
Francesca Cavendish, her grey eyes wide with terror, was the last person alive to say Pippa’s name …