“Richard, that was thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Still, it’s true.”
“No one could have imagined … in the end, you saw it all.”
“In the end.”
Julia touched his sleeve. “I had a similar experience, just out of medical school. Someone I liked and trusted.” She searched his face. “But we shouldn’t live with hardened hearts, closed off and suspicious.”
He looked away. “A hazard of my profession, I fear.”
Julia heard the sadness and saw the twist in his half smile. He was a step away, so close that she could count his dark lashes and see the fine lines etched around his eyes. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. One sweep of her hand, one step forward, and she could close the gap between them.
Julia started at the sound of two loud knocks. She opened the front door, and a boy from the telegraph office handed her a message. She opened it and read the heading:HANDED IN AT WINDSOR.
Julia looked up. “It’s from Susan Styles.”
Patrick McGrath, posing as Marcus York, arrived at Windsor Castle a few hours after Princess Louise and Lady Styles. He’d driven the carriage into the castle grounds about an hour before dusk. Before he left London, he’d sent a telegraph to Windsor’s head groom, so he was expected. He’d also mailed a letter to his London “host” that would arrive in the morning post. Last, he’d paid a sweeper lad a half crown to deliver a message to Scotland Yard.
“Tomorrow,” McGrath had said to the boy. “One o’clock sharp. Listen for the bells. And mind you, not a minute sooner or later.” He ruffled the sweeper’s unruly hair. “Deliver the message on time, and a steady stream of half crowns will come your way. I’ll know if you don’t.”
McGrath drove the familiar coach up to the gray stone gateof the Royal Mews, smiling, remembering why the driver was unavailable. Heavy oak doors swung open to admit him after he showed the man the paper with its recognizable signature.
“So, you’re Marcus York,” the head groom said.
“That’s right,” McGrath said. “Where should I stow my guvnor’s carriage?”
The head groom led the horses to the last bay. McGrath jumped from the coachman’s seat and pulled a carpetbag and rifle from the back.
“The guv heard you’re expecting trouble. He’ll arrive by train in a day or two, but he thought you could use an extra hand on the spot.”
“He’s right about that. Stow your gear in the loft.” The head groom eyed the rifle. “You’re handy with that gun?”
“You could say that.”
“More soldiers are on the way from the barracks, but another man with a rifle is welcome.”
“Barracks?”
“The Coldstream Guardsmen quartered in town. They’re changing the guard in an hour. I’ll introduce you to the major in charge.”
“Dead right, mate,” McGrath said, grinning. “Don’t want ’em shootingmedead by mistake.”
An hour later, a sergeant major drew three concentric chalk circles into the brick wall of an outbuilding. Then he marched “Marcus York” fifty paces away.
“Take three shots,” the sergeant major ordered.
The light was fading, but McGrath didn’t need the third. His first two bullets shattered the brick in the center circle.
“That’s enough, York,” the sergeant major said, grinning. “You’ll do.”
Dr. Andrew Lewis drove to the railway station with Julia. She would catch a midmorning train. He handed her down from the carriage while Mr. Ogilvie signaled to a porter.
“Now, Grandfather, you know you can depend on Clemmie to do most things,” Julia said.
“I plan on it,” he said, smiling. “I brought the morning newspapers with me. Just the odd consultation in a pinch.”
“Doctor Barnes will relieve you at three.”
