Another explosion of fireworks sounded behind me. In front of me came a second bang, nearly lost in the blasts in the sky. I saw a bright flare of gunpowder and then I was on the ground, my face in the mud, instinct preserving my life.
Desjardins’ gun had been a long-barreled shooter. This was a pistol, I could tell from the sound and a chance gleam from the fireworks.
I roared as I surged to my feet, anger propelling me upward. I ran forward, recklessly assuming that the shooter had only one pistol, which would now be spent.
Empty air answered my assault. I struck out with my cane but encountered no one.
The boom of the fireworks smothered any sound of retreating footsteps. I plunged along in the direction I imagined the shooter would have run, until I was rewarded by the outline of a man against the sky.
I snarled and launched myself at him. A large pair of hands caught me, wrested away my stick, and shoved me several feet backward.
“It’s me, guv.” Brewster held my walking stick protectively in front of him. “What the devil you attackingmefor?”
“Brewster. Bloody hell.” I sucked in a breath, my heart banging behind aching ribs. “A blackguard shot a pistol at me.”
“‘Struth.”Brewster thrust my walking stick back at me. “That’s twice in one day. Was it the Frenchie?”
I took the cane and rested it at my side, my knee now hurting powerfully. “I do not believe so. The comte wore a distinctive scent, and I did not smell it.”
“A man can wash,” Brewster pointed out.
“True, and I couldn’t smell much over the gunpowder and the fireworks.” My rage dissolved into stark worry. “Where are my daughter and Donata? If there are madmen with pistols about, you need to be watching overthem, not me.”
“Don’t fuss yourself—they’re with Mr. Grenville and a whole host of ladies and gents.”
“Where?” I began striding toward the pack watching the fireworks, forcing Brewster to catch up with me. He did so with a grunt of irritation.
“Certain ye want to join them? You look like you’ve been kissing the ground.”
I glanced down at myself. A bright wave of fireworks showed my suit plastered with mud, my cravat and waistcoat black with it.
“Bartholomew will not be pleased,” I observed.
“Naw, he’ll be chuffed. He likes looking after your clothes.”
I ignored him. If I hurried to Donata and Gabriella, there would be questions and alarm, and I might serve them better by finding and stopping the fellow instead.
“As I am not fit to be seen, let us hunt for the shooter,” I said.
Brewster glared at me. “No, ye should take yourself inside in case he tries again.”
“Exactly, and we should find him before he does. He must have run that way.”
I pointed with my stick to the road beyond the Steine. It was the darkest path, and I’d seen no one running on the lighted ones. The strongest possibility was that he’d fled across the street and into the labyrinthine back lanes of Brighton.
“You expect to find him in there?” Brewster demanded. “Brighton has paid night constables. Let them do their job.”
“He shot atme, Brewster,” I said in a hard voice. “This was not arbitrary, but personal. He waited until I was in the shadows to strike.”
“I know that, and I’ll scour the town for him, but right now, ye need to get inside where he can’t shoot at you anymore. That is, if you’ll stay away from the windows.”
Part of me reasoned that Brewster had the right of it, but being a target boiled rage through my blood.
“Someone is going to much trouble to make my life hell,” I snapped as I headed for the road. “Making me believe I killed a man and then trying to killmein return. I have had enough of it.”
“Go back to London,” Brewster advised as he caught up to me. “Much safer.”
His sarcasm was sharp, and I did not bother to answer.
