Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

 

 

“Oh my heavens!” Gray eyes wide, the Duchess of Readington turned to her husband as chaos broke out all around them. “Was that what I think it was?”

“Yes.” Grim faced, Eric took his wife’s hand and immediately headed for the terrace. While everyone else surged to the middle of the ballroom like chickens running into a henhouse, he quickly ushered Caroline down the winding stone steps and out into the gardens.

Dimly lit in an attempt to dissuade guests from venturing into the dowager’s flower beds, the twisting pathways were a shadowy labyrinth of towering shrubbery and stone walls, making it easy to get lost or turned around. But this wasn’t the first time the duke had infiltrated the gardens after nightfall, and he managed to navigate through the dark with ease, Caroline trotting obediently behind him.

He led her to a white gazebo with a wide bench in the middle of it. If his wife’s calculations were correct – which they almost always were – their middle son had been conceived on that bench. It hadn’t been the first (or the last) time they’d met in the gazebo for a secret rendezvous. Truth be told he’d been looking forward to a repeat performance tonight. Unfortunately, intimacy was the last thing on either of their minds.

“That was a gunshot.” Caroline clutched his sleeve. “Eric, that was a gunshot. Do you think anyone was hurt?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He wanted to reassure her, but over the course of their marriage he was proud to say he’d never once told his wife a lie, and he wasn’t about to start tonight. Chances were the gunshot had been nothing more than an accident. An overzealous lord showing off his weapon in an attempt to impress a lady. But there was also a chance – however slim – that the gunshot had been an indication of something much more sinister.

Over the past few months there had been a rash of sporadic burglaries in the Mayfair District. Unlike the robberies in the past where only one or two pieces of jewelry were taken and no was ever hurt, these were violent encounters that had left more than one person seriously injured, including his personal friend the Earl of Reinhold.

The way Reinhold had told it he’d been woken in the middle of the night by a loud crash in his wife’s dressing chamber. When he went to investigate he discovered three hulking brutes stuffing all of his wife’s jewelry into large burlap sacks. The leader, he’d said, was a cruel-looking man with a scar under his eye. He’d shot Reinhold in the shoulder as soon as he had entered the room even though the older man had been unarmed and clearly defenseless. The countess – a dear woman, albeit deaf as a post – had slept through the entire thing.

The burglaries were being investigated by the bobbies who, to the best of Eric’s knowledge, had yet to come up with a single suspect. Not surprising, given their general ineptitude.

“I want you to remain here until I return,” he told Caroline tersely.

“Until you return?” Her grip on his sleeve tightened. “Until you return from where? Surely you can’t mean to go back inside.”

“People may need help and I – no,” he said when he saw the stubborn set of her chin. “No, it’s too dangerous. You’re staying here.”

Her eyes flashed. “Do not presume to tell me what to do, Eric Hargrave.”

Bloody hell. Knowing it would be futile to argue, he grabbed her hand, linking their fingers tightly together. “You’re as stubborn as Grant, you know,” he told her as they hurried back through the gardens.

“Oh Eric,” Caroline said, her face paling. “You don’t think he’s in any danger, do you?” 

Thinking of their son, they both increased their pace. And broke into a run when a second gunshot echoed through the night.

 

When Grant had first spied Juliet from across the room – hiding behind a plant, no less – he’d been so taken aback by her appearance that he had stopped dead in his tracks. If he thought her beautiful before, it was nothing compared to how she looked tonight. In her golden ball gown with her hair drawn back in an intricate coil and her skin all aglow she was an absolute vision. Yet despite her finery, he couldn’t help but prefer the way she looked when she was in trousers and a cloak, dirt on her nose and fire in her eyes.

She closed those brilliant green eyes as they completed their final turn around the room, and he felt his heart leap when she trustingly laid her cheek against his chest. A surge of protectiveness swept through his body and he squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing a circle in the middle of her gloved palm.

When the music stopped and the waltz ended she remained nestled against him, her smaller frame fitting perfectly into his larger one. Everything around them slowly softened and then faded away, like a telescope losing focus. His gaze slipping to her sweet little mouth, he contemplated kissing her…

And then all hell broke loose.

At the sound of the gunshot several women screamed. Two fainted. Acting purely on instinct, Grant started to push Juliet behind him but with a horrified gasp she slipped free of his embrace and darted into the confused crowd.

For a moment he was relieved, thinking that she was running away from where the sound of the gunshot had emanated from – as any person of sound mind would. Then he caught a glimpse of her heading directly towards the double doors that led to the main stairwell, and his curse turned the air blue.

Bloody woman! What was she about? There was no reason for her to go that way unless…unless she hadn’t come to the ball alone. Unless the footman he’d seen her talking to wasn’t really a footman, but rather an accomplice. One she feared had either shot someone…or been shot themselves.

Truce? She hadn’t wanted a truce! She’d just wanted to distract him long enough for her friend to get his hands on whatever it was they’d come to the ball to steal. Once again he’d been played for a fool. And this time he had no one to blame but himself.  

“Out of the way,” he demanded sharply as he began to push and shove his way through the chaotic swarm of lords and ladies clutching their reticules and breathing heavily into their handkerchiefs. “I said out of the way!”

Bursting through the double doors, he stormed up the stairs, his fury at Juliet’s newest deceit increasing with every step.

Then he heard her scream. The gut wrenching sound was immediately followed by the sharp crack of a second gunshot…and the only thing he felt was fear.

 

Her heart in her throat, Juliet sprinted up the stairs two at a time, her slippers sinking soundlessly into the thick red carpet. She’d told Bran to put his pistol away. Hadn’t she told him? When she got her hands on him she didn’t know whether she was going to strangle him or hug him. Strangle, she decided. Then hug. Then strangle again, just for good measure.

Unless he’s dead, a tiny, terrified little voice interceded. Her mouth setting in a mulish line of stubbornness, she immediately quelled the dark thought. Bran wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. It was impossible. As impossible as the sun not rising or the tides not receding or – or – oh hell, she didn’t know! As impossible as falling in love with a runner.   

At the top of the staircase she stopped short, her gaze darting wildly left and right. She had no way of knowing for sure where the gunshot had come from, but the acrid smell of smoke gave her a good idea. Firing a gun was a messy business, especially indoors, and it always left a trail behind.

Her nose wrinkling against the burning odor of gunpowder, she shouted Bran’s name as she tracked the scent to a private bedchamber at the end of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar and black smoke billowed out from underneath of it, obscuring her view and making her cough as she threw the door open without a thought to her own safety.

“Bran!” she cried when she saw him leaning back against a canopied bed, his face pale and sweating. He had his hand pressed against his side and blood, dark and red, seeped between his fingers. When he heard her cry out his name he lifted his head, and his blue eyes, glassy with pain, flashed with warning.

“Jules, no,” he choked out. “Ye need to run! Jules, get the ‘ell out of here!”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been shot! You need a doctor.” She ran to him and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Lifting up her dress, she ripped off a strip of her petticoat – thank goodness she’d worn undergarments – and slipped it beneath his hand in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. He grimaced, but she didn’t lessen the pressure. She may not have been a sawbones, but she knew blood was better in the body than out.

“It’s all right,” she crooned even as if she wondered if the bullet had pierced any major organs. “You’re going to be all right. We’ll get a doctor, and then–”

“Actually,” a horribly familiar voice drawled from behind her, raising every single hair on the nape of her neck. “A doctor ain’t goin’ to be necessary. ‘Ello, Jules. I was wonderin’ when ye would show up.”

“Edward.” She hissed his name even before she turned to see him looming in the doorway. “I should have known.”

He was taller than she remembered. Leaner as well, like an alley cat that had gone too long between meals. His cheeks were gaunt, his shoulders bony beneath a brown jacket that had seen better days, his dark hair flat and greasy. But his eyes – those cruel, beady black eyes – were the same. They bored into her as she slowly stood up, her hands creeping into the air when she saw the pistol he held. The muzzle was still smoking. 

“Ye’re lookin’ like a peek dame, ye are.” His tongue slithered across dry, cracked lips. “Like a real lady.”

“What do you want?” It was odd, but she wasn’t afraid. The anger she felt for the vile creature standing in front of her was too overpowering. Her blood burned with it, filling her with a wild, reckless rage. This despicable excuse for a man had betrayed her. He’d hurt people. Killed people. And he’d shot Bran. If he wasn’t holding a gun, he’d already be dead.

She’d often wondered if she had what it took to rob another human being of their life. If, when it came down to it, she would be able to do what needed to be done. To steal something that could never be replaced. Staring at Edward, she finally had her answer.

And it was a resounding yes.

“Don’t ye worry yer pretty little head about that.” His gaze dipped to her breasts, lingered until she felt nausea begin to rise in her throat, and then flicked back up to her face. “Jest find me the tiara. An’ be quick about it. Yer mate took too long an’ look what that got ‘im,” he said, leering at Bran. 

He used to be your mate too! Juliet wanted to scream. But she knew it would be useless. The boy they’d played with, lived with, grown with, was completely gone. Erased by jealousy and spite and darkness.

“So you want the tiara.” Her eyes narrowed as a thought suddenly occurred. One she should have had long before now. One she undoubtedly would have had if she hadn’t allowed herself to become so distracted by Grant. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? I thought it might be a runner, but it was really you.”

Which meant she’d led him straight here. 

“Aye,” he said, and he sounded proud. “An’ I’ve built meself an empire. I started small. Merchant ships an’ the like. But it took too much manpower and the takes were hard to fence, so I moved on to better an’ bigger things.”

“Jewelry. You’re the one who’s been terrorizing the nabobs in Mayfair.” She’d heard of the robberies, of course. Everyone in the East End had. But they’d been so messy and violent, she’d assumed they were being carried out by a couple of inexperienced thugs. Not by someone who should have known better. Who had been taught better. “You’re hurting innocent people! If you’re not careful you’re going to kill someone.”

“And?” he said with a negligent shrug.

She stared at him in amazement. “And you know that’s not what we do! Yeti always said–”

“Yeti’s an old fool. He’ll get what’s coming to ‘im soon enough.”

“If you harm a single bloody hair on his head I swear to every piece of blunt in London there won’t be a hole small enough for you to crawl into. Do you hear me, Edward?”

“It’s Mallack now,” he said, sounding more like a petulant child than a violent criminal. 

“Call yourself whatever you want,” she sneered. “As far as I’m concerned a pig is still a pig, and a worthless piece of shite is still a worthless piece of shite.”

“Jules,” Bran rasped. “What are ye–”

“I’ve got this,” she muttered under her breath. It was just another game of distraction, albeit with higher stakes. Damnit Grant, she cursed silently as her gaze flicked past Edward to the door. Where the devil are you? She couldn’t have been that far in front of him. Any second he was going to come bursting through that door. She was certain. More certain than she’d ever been of anything in her entire life. Because Grant wasn’t the sort of man who ran away danger. He ran towards it. To help. To heal. The right the world’s wrongs, one problem at a time. It wasn’t just what he did, it was who he was.

“Ye’re going to pay for that,” Edward growled. He tapped his pistol against the scar she’d given him. White and puckered, it stood out in ugly contrast against his dirty skin. “And ye’re going to pay for this too.”

“What are you going to do? You’re weak, Edward,” she said derisively. “You’ve always been weak, and you’re always going to be–”

“SHUT UP!” Spit flew from the corners of his mouth. “SHUT THE FECK UP!”

“I say, what is all this ruckus?” Completely oblivious to the dangerous situation she was walking into, the Dowager Duchess pushed open the door and toddled right past Edward. “Miss Williams?” she said, squinting at Juliet. “What are you doing in my room? And who is that man by the bed? My heavens! He’s – he’s been shot! Miss Williams, we must call for a doctor at once!”

“Who the ‘ell is this old biddy?” Edward demanded as he kicked the door shut. Lifting his gun, he pointed it straight at the dowager whose mouth promptly dropped open.

“No one,” Juliet said quickly. “She’s no–”

“I would you have address me with some respect, sir!” Recovering from her shock at discovering an armed brigand in her private bedchamber with admirable speed, the dowager lifted her chin and, even though she was several inches shorter, managed to look down her nose at Edward. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Glastonbury and you are most decidedly not welcome in my home. Leave at once!”

Edward’s mouth thinned as his finger curled around the pistol’s trigger. “I ain’t got time for this.”

“No!” Juliet screamed. Launching herself forward, she knocked the dowager to the ground. There was a deafening roar, an explosion of smoke, and then there was only darkness.