Page 68 of An Unfamiliar Duke

“We’re going to need the ropes in the cart,” he said. “Although, I have yet to determine the best means of getting one to her.”

“I reckon it’s going to take a man or two crawling out there,” Dawson said. “It’s the only way to get a rope out that far, and it’s unlikely that Mrs. Tucker has the strength remaining to pull herself to safety.”

Dawson was right, of course, especially now that the rain was falling in earnest. Already, dark splotches covered the faded wood of the deck. It would not be long before it would be slippery.

“The entire bridge could give way at any time,” Sebastian said. “Whoever goes out there will have to be attached by rope to a couple of men on shore.”

“Agreed,” Dawson said. “And the faster we get out there, the better. This blowin’ rain’s not goin’ to help anyone. Least of all Mrs. Tucker.”

More shouts reached them. This time, male voices. Sebastian turned to see his servants running toward them from the cart, ropes slung over their shoulders.

“Put the heaviest men on anchor, Dawson,” he said. “I’ll go out on one rope. I’d like a volunteer for the second, but he has to be made aware of the risks involved first.”

“I’ll go, Your Grace.”

Sebastian eyed him sternly. “I won’t have you feeling pressure to do this, Dawson.”

“Understood.”

Sebastian waited a moment, but when Dawson offered him nothing further, he gave a grateful nod. “Organize the men. We have no time to lose.”

* * *

The rain was impairing her vision. Rosalind released the reins with one hand just long enough to swipe her dripping hair from her eyes. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have had Vickers pass her a hat and cloak rather than the lantern and flint.

A stone cottage appeared at the side of the road up ahead. The Becketts’ house. Surely that meant she was close. When she and Sebastian had stood near the bridge at Finley Park, he’d pointed out the roof of the shepherd’s house. It had been on the rise immediately above the river.

Slowing Belle’s pace slightly, she scoured the hedgerow for any sign of an entrance into the field. Not too far distant, cart-wheel tracks veered off the muddy road. Rosalind followed them. A wooden gate stood recessed between two thick hedges. Leaning over as far as she could go, she reached for the latch. Her fingertips brushed it. Belle skittered sideways, and the latch slipped away.

“No,” Rosalind cried.

She urged Belle back to the gate. If she was forced to dismount to open the latch, it would be almost impossible for her to regain her saddle alone.

Her leg brushed the wooden slat, and she reached down again. This time, she managed to slide her fingers beneath the latch. Pushing upward, she raised the bar. The moment it swung free, she pushed the gate open. A quick glance at the field showed no sign of sheep nearby. Offering a muttered apology to Mr. Beckett if her negligence in leaving the gate open caused any of his flock to wander off, she touched her heels to Belle’s side and flew down the hill toward the cluster of men gathered just beyond the two carts parked beside the hedgerow.

There was a crack of breaking wood, followed by a shout. Two men darted out of sight around the bushes. With her heart beating in time to Belle’s pounding hooves, Rosalind raced down the lower portion of the hill.

“Stop!” she cried, pulling her mount to a halt just beyond the second cart.

A burly man she’d seen working in the garden at Finley Park swung around. His large hands were wrapped around a rope tied to his waist, and when he caught sight of her, his eyes widened.

“Marcus!” he yelled. “Tell His Grace that Her Grace has come.”

The wind cut his words into fragments and blew them away, but Marcus must have been close enough to hear. The redheaded footman released the same rope the gardener was holding and darted toward the bridge. Dropping Belle’s straps, Rosalind tossed back her skirts from around the lantern and flint. She grasped the lantern by its hook and slid out of the saddle. Stumbling to her feet, she ran toward the opening in the hedge. “Sebastian!”

Mr. Greenwald saw her coming and extended his arm to stop her.

“Steady, Yer Grace. The banks are right slippery.”

“I heard the wood crack.” She searched the men standing in front of her for Sebastian. “Where is His Grace?”

“’E’s on the bridge,” Mr. Greenwald said. “’Elping Mr. Dawson.”

Rosalind placed one hand to her wet throat. “Dawson? What of Mrs. Tucker?”

“She’s still out there, on the post underneath the big ’ole. ’Is Grace and Mr. Dawson were tryin’ to reach ’er when Mr. Dawson’s foot went through one o’ the other boards.”

The men standing at the start of the bridge moved aside as Sebastian and a second man, whom Rosalind recognized as another Finley Park footman, assisted Mr. Dawson off the bridge and onto the ground.