Secrets, disguises, and a sudden encounter in the woods…
Step into the world of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, a Christian Regency romantic suspense series filled with clever heroines, hidden dangers, and a dash of irreverent humor.
Miss Phoebe Sauber didn’t expect to find danger—or a disguised gentleman—in the woods. Here’s a favorite moment of humor and tension.
***
Phoebe’s heart clenched. She had never injured anyone in all her years of archery and did not want to believe that this one rare misfire had harmed someone. She dropped her bow, grabbed at her skirts, and raced toward the trees.
The screaming continued in short bursts, but it sounded strange. It sounded like a young girl, but at the same time, the tone was more booming than a girl.
As she approached the tree-line, a man burst out from the shadows of the trees. His face was a mask of horror, and as he ran, his limbs flailed all around him. However, he was not limping, nor was he bleeding. He did not appear to be injured at all, but he did not stop his girlish shrieking, even when he spotted Phoebe, who had paused in surprise. He then bolted away from her across the Heath.
Phoebe was about to run after him, but then she noticed movement among the dark shadows of the trees. Had there been someone else with the man? Was his companion even now lying injured? Phoebe made an instant decision and turned toward the forest.
The vegetation near the edge did not grow thickly together, but the wind rustling through the treetops made the light flicker dimly. “Is anyone there?” She stamped through the underbrush. “Are you injured?”
She found her arrow lodged, not in a victim, but knee-height in a tree trunk at a downward angle, and it had caught a strangely shaped leaf against the bark. As she yanked it out of the tree and the leaf fluttered to the ground, a snapping twig behind her made her tense. It did not sound like anyone from her party who may have been running into the trees after her—it was an isolated sound, made from a slow-moving foot, like someone sneaking up on her.
It had not occurred to her that it might be dangerous for a young woman to be alone on the Heath, where she and her friends often had social gatherings. But these trees extended back hundreds of yards, and anyone could be sneaking around within.
Phoebe clenched the arrow tightly, regretting that she had dropped her bow. She straightened, trying to appear relaxed, listening for sounds other than the leaves dancing in the wind. Then she whirled around, her right arm pulled back and brandishing the arrow overhand like a dagger. At the very least, if there was someone behind her, she could try to stab them.
“Whoa! Whoa!” A tall man stood about ten feet—no, twenty feet distant as he backed away from her, his hands raised in front of him. “I apologize, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The man’s voice had a strong country accent, but the timbre was familiar. At first glance, he didn’t look like anyone she knew. His plain colored clothes were made of rough-woven fabric, stained with dirt in places, and his shoes were old cracked leather. His coat was shabby and poorly sewn, and much too short for him. He had a large nose and deep chin, and his eyes, shadowed by heavy brows, were glass-green.
But then she recognized something about his limbs, the way he moved his hands, the general shape of his face—and those glass-green eyes. “Mr. Coulton-Jones?” she exclaimed in surprise.
She had seen him only rarely over her past several Seasons because he had been fighting on the Peninsula up until last year, when his older brother had died. They had been introduced at a ball in her second Season, and he had danced with her only that one time. While she had a good memory for names and faces, that wasn’t the reason she remembered him clearly—it was because he had made an impact upon her that she hadn’t wanted, but couldn’t erase.
Mr. Coulton-Jones controlled his face admirably, affecting a confused look. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’re mistaken.”
She was not. Like a woman deranged and obsessed (which she very well might be), she had covertly watched him at every gathering they attended together. This was most definitely him. “Mr. Coulton-Jones, why are you dressed like that? And your face … is that stage cosmetics? It’s quite realistic.”
He hesitated for several seconds, and she could tell he was debating between continuing to deny his identity or abandoning his act. The certainty in her gaze must have decided it for him, because he relaxed and his normal saucy smile quirked up the edge of his mouth. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss Sauber.”
Phoebe’s mouth dropped open before she could think to stop it. How in the world had he remembered her? He must have an even better memory than she did, for he was certain to have danced with ten times more people. “Um … it’s nice to see you again, Mr. Coulton-Jones.” She mentally kicked herself—could she sound any more inane? But the sight of him, even obscured by the stage cosmetics, had caused her intelligence level to drop a few notches.
It wasn’t simply that he was handsome. From her experience, handsome men usually either rudely ignored her very existence or they were desperate fortune hunters. However, a handful politely interacted with her, and Mr. Michael Coulton-Jones had been one of them. At the one time they danced, the hostess of the ball had practically hurled him into Phoebe’s arms, probably because he was one of the few men taller than she was. But he had lightly flirted with her during the dance until he could take her back to her chaperone. He had never again been forced to ask her to dance, and neither had he asked her of his own accord at any other ball she had seen him attend over the years. However, he always greeted her if he happened to see her. It was perfectly unexceptional behavior. It shouldn’t have inspired her to always scan the faces around her at social gatherings to see if he was in attendance, as if he were water for her desperate, shrunken spinster’s heart.
“You are here for archery practice?” He gestured to the arrow, which was still gripped tightly in her fist.
She belatedly loosened her fingers. “I, er … lost my arrow.”
She then noticed that in his hand, partially hidden by a fold of his coat, was a leather documents case. A few pages peeked out from the edge, as if the papers had fallen to the ground and he’d stuffed them back into the case hastily.
There had been a shadow in the trees—had that been Mr. Coulton-Jones? “Were you with that man who ran away? I didn’t injure him, did I?”
His smile widened, but there was something she couldn’t quite describe about his face, his eyes, or perhaps his body language, that told her he wasn’t being sincere when he said, “I’m afraid you’ve caught me out, Miss Sauber. I was meeting him to receive some rather—ah—illicit information about a horse that is running in a race this week. It’s why you see me dressed in such a state.”
But … Phoebe reflected back upon the man who had run away. His clothes had been loose-fitting, with stains from his last several meals and from ink, as opposed to dust or dirt. Ink had stained his waistcoat, with larger ink splotches on his sleeves. He had looked like a clerk, or a rather questionable lawyer, not a groom or a man involved in horse racing.
Mr. Coulton-Jones’s glib reply also didn’t quite explain why he felt the need to disguise himself so thoroughly. A large hat pulled low or a nondescript cloak would have sufficed to prevent any observers from recognizing him meeting with a man to receive unethical information. However, the stage cosmetics made it seem as if he didn’t want the man he was meeting with to recognize him.
He continued, “But you needn’t worry, he wasn’t injured. We were startled by the arrow suddenly hitting the tree nearby.”
Phoebe knew she was relatively adept at determining if someone was lying to her—after managing Sauber Hill and dealing with tenants, merchants, and other retainers, she had had to hone an ability to observe acute changes in body language. Mr. Coulton-Jones was a very, very good liar—so much so that she doubted her own judgment about if he was telling the truth or not. But she could also tell that there was something wrong about this entire situation. It was a fog filling the space between the trees, nipping at her skin, drifting in and out of her vision.
At that moment, she heard a crashing through the underbrush from the direction she’d come, and a man’s voice called out, “Miss Sauber?”
“Mr. Vernon?”
He appeared through the trees and spotted her, but his attention was immediately caught by her scruffily-clad companion. Distaste flitted across his face at Mr. Coulton-Jones’s appearance. “Are you … Is this man …” However, he was breathing so heavily that he could not finish his sentences, and he finally gave up and sank his hands into his knees and panted.
“I had not expected you to follow me, Mr. Vernon.”
“Miss Sauber … you are … dashed fast,” Mr. Vernon wheezed.
Considering she had been hampered by her corset, Phoebe didn’t think she had run quite that quickly. She had to wonder at Mr. Vernon’s stamina. When she had seen him in fashionable places like Hyde Park, he rode at a sedate pace like everyone else. She had never had the opportunity to ride with him in the country, so she did not know if he liked exercise or not.
Mr. Coulton-Jones, on the other hand, moved like an athlete despite his ill-fitting coat. But he had such a casual way of holding himself, it gave the impression he was rather indolent. Phoebe didn’t know why, but she suspected he purposefully wanted to give that impression.
Mr. Vernon finally managed to catch his breath and look up. Belatedly he asked, “Is this man … distressing you … in any way, Miss Sauber?” Mr. Vernon would normally be delighted to meet with Mr. Coulton-Jones, who was from an ancient family and also heir to his uncle’s baronetcy, but his costume had successfully hidden his identity.
Mr. Coulton-Jones responded in the country accent he had affected earlier. “I came to see what all the commotion was about.”
But Phoebe realized that his reply would not explain why she had remained chatting with a scruffy stranger in the middle of the woods. “Yes, and I recognized him as Mr. Purdue, an acquaintance from my home village.” The real Mr. Purdue was the starchy curate who was forever admonishing Phoebe to allow her tenants to starve rather than hunting game from her father’s woods for them. Having his name attached to another man’s disreputable appearance would annoy him to no end.
“Oh … er …” Mr. Vernon was clearly torn as to whether to greet the stranger or discreetly ignore his presence.
Phoebe smiled smugly at Mr. Coulton-Jones, as if to say, I have done my part. What will you do now, I wonder?
A twinkle appeared in Mr. Coulton-Jones’s eyes as he took up her unspoken challenge. Before her astonished eyes, his entire gait and physicality changed—his face suddenly appeared at least a decade older, and his hunched shoulders and stooped posture gave the impression he was uncomfortable in the face of Mr. Vernon’s wealth and social status. He timidly stretched his hand out to Mr. Vernon while saying, “How do you do?” in an even thicker country accent than before. If she hadn’t seen through his makeup before, she would have thought he truly was a complete stranger to her.
Forced to greet “Mr. Purdue,” Mr. Vernon couldn’t stop a grimace as he very briefly touched the dirty hand with two glove-clad fingers. “Er … yes … indeed. Were you perhaps with the man who ran away?”
“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t see him. I came this direction because I heard the screaming.”
Mr. Vernon frowned. “Such a racket he was making.”
“But if you were wondering,” Phoebe said with a trace of sarcasm, “he appeared uninjured.”
Mr. Vernon nodded absently and glanced around the small clearing. “Miss Sauber, I feel I should mention that it is improper for you to be meeting this person in this secluded place. We should return to the archery party.”
Phoebe pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t retort with something outrageous such as, I was just deciding to elope with Mr. Purdue in order to escape your insufferable presence at the archery party.
Or, But I haven’t yet hidden the body of the man I just shot.
Or, Mr. Vernon, it would improve my mood greatly if you would hold perfectly still whilst I connect my fist to your rather large nose.
She sighed and instead said, “Mr. Purdue was helping me recover my arrow.”
Strangely, Mr. Coulton-Jones gave her a sidelong glance and his mouth twitched in amusement, as if he knew she had wanted to say something completely inappropriate.
***
Curious how it all begins?
Click below to read the beginning of Lady Wynwood’s Spies, Volume 1: Archer for free and step into a world of Regency intrigue, danger, and slow-burn romance.
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This post relates to Camille Elliot’s Lady Wynwood’s Spies, a Christian Regency romantic suspense series set in 1811 London and featuring intrigue, espionage, botanical alchemy, slow-burn romance, and themes of faith and redemption.
• Lady Wynwood’s Spies Series Reference Page
• Reading Order: Lady Wynwood’s Spies Reader Journey Roadmap
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