Gabby stopped, struck by the confidence in her voice. “Bentick, then?” she whispered. It came as a bit of a relief to hear the truth.
But Lady Bentick’s expression appeared momentarily confused, then cleared and she turned that unpleasant smile on her again. “Yes. Yes, it was Bentick.”
After that cryptic response, she snatched Lady Macbeth’s lead and jerked.
Lady Macbeth let out a yelp and tumbled from Gabby’s lap. Lady Bentick shoved the hack door open and pushed her out.
Another pain cry sounded from Lady Macbeth.
“She’ll be crushed by the carriage wheels, you horrible woman,” Gabby screamed. She lunged for Lady Bentick, hit her arm, but failed to dislodge the pistol from her hand.
A second later, the pistol exploded, deafening Gabby to anything coherent. Everything around her slowed to pictures forming to instant images in intermit flashes of her past: the night she’d met Huntley. Him tucking her into his body. His coming in from the rain after letting out her precious dog, toweling her dry with a smirk on his lips. Defending her intellect to her stoic brother of a duke.
Through a shaft of burning pain, Gabby’s eyes landed on Lady Bentick’s stunned expression, her gaping mouth, her hands flying to paled cheeks that resembled chalk.
The ringing in Gabby’s ears refused to subside, rendering her deaf. Her entire insides recoiled as the burn ignited and poured as lava must have from Vesuvius. She gasped for air but couldn’t seem to draw in a single breath. The pain was too much, and she gave herself over to the black void calling for her.
Forty-Six
James ran for the public hackney and, for once, the clogged streets worked in his favor. Ladies dashed out of his path. Men called after him and may have even followed. He reached the cobbled street just as the blast went off.
He ran for the hack and nearly tripped over Lady Macbeth. Her entire body quaked with fear. She held up her front paw as if she wanted to shake hands, but it was covered in blood.
“Huntley!” The duchess of Ryleigh had reached him first.
He set Lady Macbeth in her arms. “Guard her with your life,” he barked, and ran for the only hack with the open door, stunned the pup hadn’t been run over.
Lady Bentick cowed in a shadowed corner.
He ignored her, his eyes going to Gabriella. She lay on the floor, the perfect curls in her hair no longer uniform and neat, but askew and covering her face. “God, no,” he whispered.
“I-I didn’t mean to.” Lady Bentick was shaking as bad as Lady Macbeth. “Sh-she forced me. She attacked me. It was her. All her.” She was rambling.
James blocked her out. Another especially useful skill he’d acquired over years—the cries of sick and dying men. He’d never been so grateful for that ability until now while he ran his hands over Gabriella’s chest, her arms, her abdomen—and stopped. Blood saturated her once pristine light green dress on the right side. Through the blood he found a hole marked by burn marks. He carefully rolled her and located another hole the back side of her now ruined frock.
Gabriella’s eyes flickered and opened but were glazed with pain. “James? Am I dead?”
“Not yet, darling.” He spoke lightly, teasingly.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow intakes. She was alive and that was all that mattered.
Tears gathered and leaked from the corner of her eye. “Lady Macbeth—”
“Is fine. The duchess has charge of her. I’m going to lift you, darling. I’ll do my best to be gentle, but it will still likely hurt like the devil.”
Her nod was slight.
“She killed Stanford. Lady Bentick killed Stanford.”
“Ryleigh will handle the matter, Gabriella. Y-you did well…” his voice trailed on a choked whisper. “We’re going home. We’ll be home soon.” It was a chant he kept up until he had her safely ensconced in her bedchamber and Lady Macbeth curled up beside her with a newly bandaged paw.
Forty-Seven
Three days later
James was at his wit’s end. He refused to leave Gabriella’s side. She’d contracted a fever despite his careful handling of her wound. If she slept at all, it was fitful. The pistol ball had exited but she’d lost a considerable amount of blood. Her hands were like ice, her head like fire. He’d witnessed so much death in his life, and was helpless against the higher power that wished to steal her from him.
His pleas to the Almighty had not been answered.
