Her pursuer was keeping pace but didn’t sound any closer.Biding his time, no doubt. . . but with luck, she could gain an extra few yards head start by seizing the element of surprise.
Just as she rounded the bend, Charlotte broke into a run. The splintered section of overhanging roof was there, and taking care to time her leap, she managed to snag hold of it.
Splinters gouged her palms as she tried to pull herself up onto the broken shingles.
Damnation—my sedentary life has left me weak as a kitten.
A shout rumbled against the surrounding brick and wood as her pursuer caught sight of her ploy.
Damn!The thud of steps warned that he was closing in. Swinging her legs side to side for momentum, Charlotte tried again to heave herself up. Pain lanced through her palms, but her grip held, and her hips came up over the edge, allowing her to claw her way higher.
A hand caught her boot, but she shook it off.
Her pursuer cursed and grabbed again, his fingers once again seizing her heel.
Swallowing a spurt of fear, Charlotte tried to lash out again, but his grip was like a vise, pulling her down. She felt herself slipping . . .
A suddencracksounded as something hard—a rock?—ricocheted off the back of her assailant’s head, knocking him off-balance and sending him tumbling to the ground.
Dear God, surely the Weasels hadn’t—
But there was no time for such distractions. She needed to stay focused on the moment at hand.
With a grunt of effort, Charlotte scrambled free of danger and up to the peak of the overhang, then crawled over to the brick ledge. From there, the gaps in the crumbling mortar allowed her to climb the short distance to the roof. Without a backward look, she raced across to the other side, dropped down to a low-slung shed, then to the ground, and took off running.
A stitch in her side finally made her slow to a walk as she reached the streets of Mayfair. Keeping to the shadowed passageways, she made her way to the back garden gate of their Berkeley Square mansion and let herself in.
* * *
The earl looked up from his reading as Charlotte tiptoed into his workroom.
“Drat,” she said. “I was hoping that you would be asleep.”
He eyed her torn jacket and filthy breeches. “I can see why.” He cocked an ear but heard no sound in the corridor. “Where’s Tyler? I was told the two of you went out together to attend a meeting in Seven Dials.”
“He was invited to stay and have a round of drinks with the radicals,” she answered. “We had agreed beforehand that I would head straight home if that happened.”
Wrexford held back a sarcastic retort. Her face looked unnaturally pale, and as she shifted her stance . . .
“Is that blood on your hands?” he asked calmly.
“Yes.” She drew in a shaky breath. “But might I explain everything after I go to the kitchen and wash the filth from the scrapes?”
“Sit,” he commanded. “I’ll be back shortly.” A hesitation. “Though I might suggest that you remove your stinking jacket and hat while I’m gone.”
He returned with a basin of steaming water, several soft cloths, and a jar of medicinal salve. After putting them on a small side table and moving it close to her chair, Wrexford went to the sideboard and took a bottle of amber-dark spirits from one of its lower cabinets. “As you know, Baz is a great believer in splashing a bit of whisky on a wound.”
“Heaven forfend that you squander your special Highland malt on a few trifling scratches,” replied Charlotte. It was said lightly, but he heard an undertone in her voice that made him uneasy.
For the moment, however, he took care to respond with an equal measure of humor. “Don’t worry. Tyler keeps a bottle of cheap swill tucked away for his own medicinal purposes. I daresay his scrapes are far worse than yours.”
She forced a brittle laugh.
Which made him even more concerned.
After uncorking the bottle, Wrexford crouched beside Charlotte and took one of her hands in his. She winced as he splashed a bit of the spirits on her palm and gently massaged it into the torn flesh.
“I know it burns,” he murmured, “but in this case, Baz asserts that pain is good.”
