The next instant, her knees crumpled. Strong arms caught her. She found herself looking up into her beloved’s face, his blazing eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
“No.” She shook her head, a bit woozy. “I shother.”
The fire slowly banked in his eyes. His lips quirked. “Then there’s no use fainting after the fact, sunshine.”
“Did I… is Sybil…?”
“She’s alive, my lady. ’Tis just a flesh wound.” She turned her head at Jem’s voice; she hadn’t noticed the groom’s presence—or the other men’s. He and two guards surrounded Sybil, who remained lying on the ground, her chest rising and falling in shallow surges.
“We’ll staunch the bleeding,” Jem went on, “and she’ll live to see justice served.”
With a nod, Rosie turned back to Andrew. “How did you find me?”
“I had a guard watching you. He saw you leave the house alone and sensed something was amiss. So he followed you here, sent word to me.”
“Thank you for protecting me,” she said softly.
“Don’t thank me.” His expression was stark. “I’ve done a shoddy job of keeping you safe. You protected yourself.”
“You gave me the pistol, remember?”
“I didn’t think you’d actually have touseit.”
He sounded so disgruntled that she was tempted to smile. Instead, all the feelings she had for this strong, beautiful man pushed to the surface.
“I love you,” she blurted. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t let you explain about Kitty.”
His pupils flared. Before he could say anything, footsteps pounded down the hallway. The next instant Papa stormed in, Harry and Caster on his heels.
Ashen-faced, her father said, “Poppet, are you—”
“I’m fine.” Exhaling, she smiled shakily at him, then at Andrew. “My troubles are finally behind me.”
Chapter Forty
The next evening, Rosie sat with the ladies of her family in her drawing room. Mama and Aunt Helena shared the settee next to Rosie’s chaise whilst Emma, Thea, and Polly occupied curricle chairs. Violet, never one to sit still, wandered around the room munching on bonbons and fiddling with things.
“It is such a relief for the business to be over,” Mama was saying.
“Indeed. Sybil Fossey was more cunning than I’d given her credit for.” A notch formed between Emma’s brows. “Thank heavens she is safe behind bars at Newgate.”
“According to Ambrose, she might end up in Bedlam eventually,” Mama said.
“I think an insane asylum is a fitting place for Sybil. Then again, it wasn’t me she tried to murder.” Canting her head, Em said, “How do you feel about it, Rosie?”
Despite Sybil’s evil intentions, Rosie had a degree of empathy for the other, who’d suffered greatly at Daltry’s hands. It didn’t excuse Sybil’s actions, but it did make them more understandable.
“Bedlam’s no stroll in the park,” she said quietly. “And I think it’ll be easier for the rest of her family to have her in a hospital rather than in gaol… or worse. As it is, Lady Charlotte and Eloisa are beside themselves.”
“They truly had no idea that Daltry had been blackmailing Sybil all these years?” Polly’s aquamarine eyes shone with sympathy.
Rosie shook her head. “They didn’t know about her affair with the butler, her terminated pregnancy, or her forced relations with Daltry. Whenever she needed to get away, she would use the excuse of visiting her friend Miss Bunbury. When Mr. McLeod stopped in Lancashire, he discovered that Miss Bunbury had, in fact, died many years ago.”
Shuddering, Polly said, “How is Peter Theale taking the news?”
“He’s distressed, naturally,” Rosie said, “and shocked to discover that the woman he loves is capable of murder.”
