“Then he may not be dead, for you did not wait to see what had happened. He may not be dead. Who was with him?”
“Sir Peter Burley, my Lady, another gentleman and his Lordship’s own groom with the horses.”
“Where did this take place?” the Marchioness asked.
“About five miles outside London, my Lady. A place called Cross Trees.”
“I know it well,” the Marchioness said. “’Tis a quiet and lonely spot.”
She put her hand to her head.
“’Tis queer to think that Harry Wrotham should do such a dastardly deed as to fire before Justin was ready.”
She put her hands over her eyes and Martha, who had been hovering solicitously in the background, piped up,
Now, now, don’t you distress yourself, my Lady. His Lordship may only have been wounded. ’Twould have been better if the lad had waited to see w
