He exerted a touch of pressure, opening the crack just enough to peer into the room.
* * *
Charlotte changed her position. And then changed it again. The bright blaze of the fireworks continued to light the sky, the booms softening to a regular rhythm. Close by, all the little noises—the twitter of a nightingale, the ruffling of the leaves, the faint music from the main pavilions—indicated that nothing was amiss. And yet she felt twitchy.
Perhaps, she thought ruefully, her muscles were still in knots from the latest fencing session with Angelo.
A leaf tickled against her cheek, nearly making her jump. She drew in a calming breath . . .
And froze at the snap of a twig.
The sound had come from up ahead. A feral cat foraging for food? Or a more sinister predator?
Squinting into the gloom, Charlotte tried to make out any sign of movement.
Nothing.
Raising a false alarm could put Wrexford and Sheffield at risk. She waited, but all she heard between the booms of the fireworks was the thumping of her heart against her rib cage.
After another minute passed, she cursed herself for a fool and sat back on her haunches, then turned her gaze to the path and resumed her surveillance.
* * *
A lantern, half hidden by the legs of a worktable, was set on the floor, its wick turned low so that only a faint aureole of light illuminated the floor. It showed . . .
Holy hell.
Wrexford’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene. Three bodies lay sprawled on the stone flaggings, their limbs unnaturally still.
A man wearing a black silk mask and holding a smoking pistol in one hand was crouched down beside the corpse nearest the door. “Damnation!” he hissed to his henchman, a muscled brute who had moved to the window to check the surroundings. “Why did the cursed fellows fire at us?”
“Only the devil knows,” came the terse reply. The henchman turned back to the room, a last rippling of smoke drifting up from the two pistols clutched in his hands. “But there will be hell to pay with our superiors. There wasn’t supposed to be any bloodshed.”
The earl pulled back and leaned close to Sheffield’s ear. “Wayland and the Frenchmen are dead,” he whispered. “There are two assailants. Their weapons appear spent, but Black Mask may still have one loaded.” He thought for an instant. “I’ll handle the situation. You stay here out of sight—and I bloody well mean that.”
“Search the bodies, and be quick about it,” urged the henchman. “The fireworks likely covered the sound of the shots, but we can’t afford to be caught. We must find those papers.”
Before Sheffield could respond, Wrexford slipped back to the doorway and took dead aim at Black Mask as he started to reach for the pocket of Mercer Wayland’s once-elegant coat.
“Don’t move,” warned the earl. “You and your friend have precisely three seconds to toss your weapons over here, else I will put a bullet through your brainbox.”
* * *
The breeze freshened, and Charlotte felt another tickling against her flesh. She reached up to brush away the leaf, only to have a gloved hand clamp down over her mouth.
“Mmph!” She struggled to break free, but her captor had seized her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. In desperation, Charlotte threw back her head, hoping to smash her assailant’s nose. But he deftly dodged the attack and tightened his hold.
“Achtung!Lady Wrexford, please hold your fire!” whispered a familiar voice. “We’ve no time to waste.”
Charlotte went slack from shock. “You!”
“Ja, me.”
A myriad of questions were whirling in her head as she twisted to face the man who had grabbed her. “You have a great deal of explaining to do, Herr von Münch—or whatever your damn name is.”
“Yes, yes, but not now. I fear that your husband and Mr. Sheffield are in grave danger.” He drew his pistol and checked the priming. “You must hurry and fetch your Bow Street Runner friend and his men, while I take up a position to reinforce them.”
She hesitated. “H-How do I know you’re not lying?”
