A dry voice spoke from behind us. “Not always,” said the woman Finch was restraining. “When they’re at the ready, it can be quite impressive.”
Rosalynd glanced up at me, her brows lifting in wonder. “Is it?”
I huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Under very different circumstances.”
I retrieved her cape from where it lay crumpled near the door. The fabric was torn and damp at the hem, the clasp bent, but it would serve. I settled it around her shoulders, drawing it close and fastening it with care. She stilled at the touch, then lifted her chin, accepting the protection without comment.
“There,” I murmured. “That will do.”
Her fingers closed briefly over mine. Then she straightened, composure settling back into place as though she were donning armor rather than wool. “Did you get the young women away?”
“Yes, including Lady Honora. Finch’s men are escorting them to the barge.”
“Then it was worth it.”
I stroked her loose curls. “Was it?”
“Of course.”
At some point, I would agree with her, but I couldn’t summon the will to do so at the moment. I gazed at Finch. “Let her go.”
He released the woman at once, though not before fixing her with a look that promised consequences should she break her bargain. She did not linger.
I turned back to Rosalynd. “You will go with Finch. He will make sure you arrive safely at the barge.” There was more I wanted to say—far more—but the river whispered behind us, and beyond it the house still pulsed with expectation.
“You’re not coming with us?” Rosalynd asked.
“No. I’m returning to the house. There is something I must see to.”
“You will be careful, Steele.”
I lifted her hand to my lips. “I will.”
Behind us, the man dragged himself an inch across the ground, his hands slick with blood. “You ain’t going to leave me here,” he gasped. “You ain’t going to let me bleed to death.”
Finch looked down at him, then back to me. “What do you want done with him?”
I did not raise my voice. “He’s not dying. Yet.”
The man let out a broken sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.
“He needs a surgeon,” Finch said quietly.
Revenge warred with my conscience. He deserved to bleed into the rotting boards, listening to his own breath fail, until even his prayers turned to silence.
I could leave him. I could walk away now that Rosalynd was safe and allow justice to take its course, untainted by law or mercy. No jury would ever hear of it. No court would ever convict me. The city would not mourn him.
My gaze dropped to the man’s hands—shaking now, slick with his own blood as he clawed at the earth in a futile attempt to live.
He had not shown Rosalynd mercy. Why should I show that to him?
For one savage instant, I wanted to do nothing at all. But then my honor asserted itself. I would not become the monster he was.
I drew a slow breath, forcing the fury back behind my ribs until I could speak without it. “He’ll last until one can be fetched,” I said at last. “Bind the leg as best you can.”
Rosalynd exhaled once. “I suppose you’ll want my petticoat again.”
I met her gaze. “Sorry, love. I would rather have you clothed and him dead,” I said honestly. “But I won’t have his death on your conscience. And we do need him alive so he can talk.”
