“You,” the man yelled, brandishing his pistol Adelaide’s way. “Get the money from the till.”
Adelaide shot a look to Gideon, who was edging ever so slowly toward her, his hands in the air, freezing a second later when one of the men trained his pistol on him.
“Stay where you. No sudden moves.”
“Get going,” the burly man ordered, gesturing to the cash register even as he kept his weapon aimed at Adelaide.
“I can open the cash register, but there’s no money in it because the store isn’t open for business,” she began, taking a step forward and then freezing on the spot when the largest man in the group joined the one with the gun trained on her.
“Then I guess you’ll just need to give us what we’re really here for—a diary,” he growled. “It’s old and it’s got an X on the spine. Might have been written by some girl.”
“I knew that diary was going to be worth at least a hundred,” William muttered, his complexion turning chalk white when the man leveled his pistol on him.
“You know the diary I’m talking about?” the man demanded.
“Not for sure, but it might be...” William nodded to the wrapped package lying on the table, keeping his hands in the air.
“Unwrap it,” the man demanded, jerking his head toward Adelaide.
With hands that were trembling ever so slightly, Adelaide reached for the diary, tore off the wrapping, and held it up.
“Is there an X on the spine?” the man asked.
She held it up so that the X was visible.
“That’s the one. Hand it over—real slow like.”
Taking a step forward, Adelaide faltered when, from out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two dapperly dressed gentlemen draw pistols from beneath their jackets.
A second later, shots erupted around the room.
“Get down!” Gideon yelled.
Chaos was immediate as William, Clement, Jeromy, and the rest of the book agents dove for the floor as the Duveen maids dropped behind the refreshment table. Vernon pushed Edna under a table even as he pulled out a pistol, while Leopold’s weapon was already in his hand as he crouched behind a chair and began taking aim at the two groups of men who were now engaged in what seemed to be a showdown.
“Get down!” Gideon yelled again to Adelaide, two pistols in his hands as he leaned around from behind a bookshelf and took aim.
Needing no other encouragement to get out of the line of fire, Adelaide dropped to the floor before she reached up, snagged hold of her reticule that was still on the table, flipped the clasp open with fingers that seemed to be all thumbs, and extracted the pepperbox she’d been carrying everywhere with her of late.
Drawing in a deep breath, she peeked over the edge of the table, horror flowing through her when she saw Charles stumbling into the room, blood running down his face, a pistol in his hand, his appearance drawing the attention of one of the men in black. As that man aimed his gun at her cousin, Adelaide cocked the hammer and began to fire.
It soon became clear why Gideon had cautioned her about only using the pepperbox at close range, because without a long barrel, her shots went wide. One shattered a front window, another hit the man advancing on Charles, while another dropped one of the dapperly dressed gentlemen to the ground. Unsurprisingly, the irregularity of her shots sent everyone else who’d come into the store with mal intent on their minds fleeing out the front door as fast as their legs could carry them without a backward glance.
Twenty-Seven
Rage coursed through Gideon as the scent of cordite from the many firing weapons seared his nostrils, all the men except two having fled, trailing blood behind them. He set his sights on one of the remaining men, a man dressed in black who was writhing on the floor, a direct result of Adelaide having shot him.
His gaze immediately sought out and found Adelaide, who was rushing across the room toward Charles, who was bleeding profusely from his temple, tearing the cuff off her sleeve as she ran and pressing it against his head once she reached him.
Realizing she was safe, he strode to the man on the ground, bent down, and yanked the covering from his face, revealing none other than Frank Fitzsimmons.
“We meet again,” he said, earning a grimace from Frank in return.
“I need a doctor” were the first words out of Frank’s mouth. “I’ve been shot.”
“And I’ll be happy to summon one for you after you answer a few questions.”
“I could bleed to death by then.”
