‘Some people have no backbone, I’m afraid,’ he continued conversationally.
‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ Anthony repeated between gritted teeth, ‘and what do you want with George?’
The man sighed again and stepped further into the room, brandishing his pistol to direct Anthony back towards the window. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in giving you a name,’ he murmured, ‘since you won’t be in a position to use it.’
‘It’s Linfield,’ he continued. ‘But since we’ll never have the opportunity to be properly introduced, I must tell you I’m aware of your relationship with the Duke of Blackmore.’ He gave a small pout. ‘Unfortunately, it’s that connection that’s sealed your fate, I’m afraid.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I really can’t have this whole sordid affair coming to the ears of the sanctimonious Nicholas Sinclair.' Then without another word, he raised his pistol and shot Anthony through the heart.
∞∞∞
George woke to the feeling of someone laying a compress across her head. For a second, she didn’t move, her mind trying to process what exactly had happened. As the memories came flooding back, she gasped. The last thing she remembered was falling from Horatio.
Anthony! Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed hold of the hand hovering above her face. 'Where am I?’ she rasped, struggling to sit up.
‘Please, lie still,’ a soft voice begged. ‘You’ve had a nasty bump on the head.’ At her words, right on cue, a blinding headache that felt as though her skull was like to split in two suddenly made itself known. Abruptly, George leaned over the side of the bed and threw up, only narrowly missing a set of feet.
Groaning, she sank back against the pillow and shut her eyes. The hand replaced the cold compress across her brow, then came the sound of someone moving around the side of the bed. Doubtless cleaning up the mess she’d made. George felt too weary, confused and heartsick to care. Anthony was dead. She’d seen him shot from close quarters. Whoever had done the shooting was very unlikely to have missed his target.
She fought back a sob, wanting to simply curl up and die.
‘Georgiana!’ The soft voice was back. Reluctantly opening her eyes, she stared up at a woman, frowning in evident concern. Her face was familiar, but George couldn’t think where she’d seen it before. She became aware that the lady’s hand was attempting to lift her head towards a glass of water. Suddenly thirsty, George managed to assist by lifting herself up onto her elbows. Ignoring the pain in her head, she drank greedily, although half the liquid spilled down her front.
For a second, as she collapsed back against the pillow, she thought the water might come straight back up, but after a moment, the urge to cast her account lessoned, and she watched silently as the lady sat down on the edge of the bed.
Eying her narrowly, George suddenly realised where she’d seen her before. It was the same lady who’d given her the guineas when she’d first escaped from the Grimms.
‘Who are you?’ she croaked.
‘My name is Judith Linfield. I am … Iwas… your mother’s best friend. Sleep now, I will tell you everything in the morning.’
George opened her eyes to protest that she needed to escape, that she needed to know what had happened to Anthony, to Nelson and Horatio, but somehow her tongue wouldn’t work. Her last thought was that the bloody woman had given her a sleeping tincture, and then a welcoming blackness descended.
∞∞∞
It was the licking that finally woke him, that and the whining which he originally thought was in his head. Slowly opening his eyes, it took several minutes before he was able to focus enough to recognise Nelson. Seeing his master finally awake, the dog sat back on his haunches and wagged his tail.
Weakly, Anthony put out his hand to touch the coarse fur, then slowly turned his head to the side, spying the familiar bed, covers spilling onto the floor.
George! He struggled to lift himself up, only to fall back to the floor with a harsh groan. The whole of his chest was on fire. Staring up at the ceiling, he struggled to breathe, bunching his fists in an effort to stave off panic. Gradually, his breathing eased – evidently as long as he didn’t try to move.
He’d been shot. How the bloody hell was he still alive? Slowly, he raised his hand off the floor and gently probed at his chest with his fingers. Sliding his hand towards the centre of the pain, his fingers finally encountered a twisted lump of metal. Frowning, he gripped an edge and pulled, almost crying out as he belatedly realised that some of the metal was embedded in his skin. Panting, he lifted the object in front of his face.
It was a coin. If it didn’t hurt so much, he would have laughed out loud. One of George’s guineas had saved his life.
Letting the coin fall to the floor, he looked up towards the window. Weak daylight shone through the glass. Clearly, it was early morning. If Nelson was here, it meant that George had been caught.
He tried lifting himself again, only to fall back with a strangled gasp. Minutes later, after he finally managed to take a deep breath, he swore weakly. He might lie here for days before anybody found him. There was no guarantee that Mrs. Parsons would suspect anything amiss and come upstairs, especially since he couldn’t shout louder than a babe.
He looked over at Nelson, wagging his tail and whining softly. ‘Nelson, find Mrs. Parsons,’ he croaked. The dog cocked his head to one side, then lay down, his head on one front paw. Anthony sighed. Clearly he was no Freddy.
Somehow he had to get off this bloody floor. George needed him. Anthony refused to consider the possibility that she’d suffered the same fate as him. He needed to believe the intruders wanted her alive. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
Linfield … that was the bastard’s name. Anthony grimaced. What the bloody hell was George to these people? By all accounts no one had given a damn about her while she’d been growing up. She’d been left to fend for herself in the slums of Exeter. Clearly, someone had been keeping an eye on her, but whoever it was couldn’t have cared less whether she lived or died. Except, all that changed when she’d run away.
Then she’d become a loose cannon.
Gritting his teeth, Anthony tried to move again, this time managing to slide towards the bed without feeling as though his ribs were about to cave in. He lay there panting when all of a sudden, he heard the sound of a horse coming up the drive towards the house.
Had the bastards come back to finish what they started? No, Linfield would have been confident he was good and dead. He listened to the sound of someone dismounting underneath the still open bedchamber window. Taking a deep breath, Anthony tried to cry out, but could only utter a low croak. Tears of frustration ran down his cheeks.
