The violent gunshot, followed by a loud grunt from the intended target, sapped everyone’s attention. The two blackguards who were still on their feet froze in place. “Stop!” she shouted. “Or I—I will shoot!”
Wind whistled through the trees in the eerie quiet before three of the four rogues assessed the situation, turned tails, and sprinted for their lives. Dorian rested a heavy boot on the small of the collapsed man’s back.
A policeman’s whistle was the second piercing noise in the air as the field was flooded with constables.
“Chief Constable Briggins. Stand fast, in the name of the law!” the sturdy constable bellowed. Upon recognizing the situation had been stabilized, his hand lifted placatingly toward Ellie. “Your Grace, please lower the pistol…”
“And please step away from the suspect, Duke Wolfthorne,” another constable said as he approached Dorian.
Dorian took his foot off the blackguard’s back as two watchmen hauled the unconscious man onto his feet by either elbow.
Dropping her arm, Ellie almost collapsed in fear, but Dorian had her in a firm hold, his arms crushing her in a fierce embrace. He held her tight and gently took the pistol from her fingers.
“You did well, sweetheart. You did exceptionally well.”
Briggins went over to the brute and tipped the wounded man’s chin up. “Your Grace, your lordship, does this man look familiar to you?”
“No,” Dorian said after a moment.
Benedict came closer and shook his head, too. “No, not to me either.”
“We’ll hold him at Fleet Prison,” the constable latched iron on the man and walked him away, possibly to a carriage waiting for him. “Don’t worry, Your Grace, we’ll get the answer out of him.”
Dorian nodded to Benedict, who swiftly took Dorian’s place by Ellie’s side the moment he let go. Approaching the prisoner, Dorian asked, “Was it Edgar or Sterling?”
The constable frowned, “Pardon?”
“Not you,” Dorian nodded to the prisoner. “Was it Edgar or Sterling?”
“Yer ol’ man send ‘is regards,Yer Grace,” the man’s chopped cockney accent, mired with sarcasm and spite, struck Ellie but did not seem to faze Dorian.
“Take him,” Dorian muttered.
As the man was dragged away, Dorian returned to Ellie while Benedict blanketed his jacket over Harriet’s shoulders and bundled her. A growing bruise was spreading over Benedict’s cheekbone as he turned to Dorian.
“Thank you,” he mumbled between swollen lips. “Your assistance stopped them and well… nearly damned well saved my life.”
Curtly, Dorian nodded. “Even with our differences, I could not allow you to die. Not like this. You need a thorough pummeling from me first.”
Choking out a hoarse laugh, Benedict asked, “Where did you learn to shoot, Ellie—my apologies,Your Grace.”
“To you, it’s always Ellie,” she murmured, swallowing tight. “And I never learned. What you saw was instinct. I could not allow the man I love to die.” The words coming out so easilysurprised her. She felt Dorian’s hand subtly tighten around her middle.
“As much as I want to stay around and find out why my bastard uncle targeted you, I think I need to get my wife home. We can speak tomorrow.”
Benedict stuck out a hand, and Dorian, after a moment of hesitation, shook it. “Coffee on the morrow.”
“Not before midday,” Dorian replied. “And it might be best down at my club.”
“I’ll be there,” Benedict agreed.
Inside their carriage, Dorian unceremoniously dropped the curtains, pulled his jacket away, and bundled Evelina up, heaving her onto his lap. He knew now that the calm had returned, she would begin to feel the repercussions of what she had done.
She was shivering. Her breaths grew fluttery, and her hands trembled. “Dorian…”
“Breathe, Evelina,” he soothed, while his hand rubbed up and down her back. “Breathe it out. It will pass.”
“My head is spinning,” she whispered.
