“You said there were two other men?” another Runner asked.
Samantha gave a swift nod. “We managed to chase them off, so I’ve no idea where they are now.”
“Very well.” The first Runner nudged the assailant toward the door leading into the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. “If you’ll please accompany us inside,Mrs. Croft. I’d like to take your statement for the chief constable to review later.”
“My apologies, but it will have to wait.” She was already stepping back, adding distance as she made to return to the carriage.
“Procedure dictates that all events pertaining to criminal acts be put down in writing.”
“I’m sure it does and I’m happy to help if you’ll stop by the house tomorrow. Right now, however, I’m making sure my husband gets the treatment he needs.”
“But—”
She turned, her foot landing hard on the carriage step, hands grabbing the guard rail as she hauled herself back onto the driver’s bench. The Runner shouted at her but she blocked him out, her only focus on reaching Portman Square quickly. So she whipped the horses into a gallop, teeth clamping together when one of the wheels struck a pothole.
Adrian groaned beside her. She uttered a hasty apology but kept the carriage moving. It careened around a number of corners and nearly plowed into a couple of men who were crossing the street. They managed to leap clear of her path, their angry curses trailing behind as the carriage shot straight toward home.
Murry came running at Elks’s insistence as soon as they arrived, the two men helping Adrian into the house while Stewart, the younger of the two footmen in their employ, was told to take care of the horses.
“What happened to Phelps?” Stewart asked when hetook the reins from Samantha, his wide-eyed gaze searching the carriage.
“He was shot and thrown from the carriage at some point between Bloomsbury Square and Oxford Street. Once you’ve stabled the horses, I’d like you to head over there and see if you’re able to find his body.”
Stewart paled. “You think he’s dead?”
“I expect so after what happened. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll make sure to find him,” Stewart promised, all traces of softness vanishing beneath a hard veneer of anger.
Intent on returning to Adrian’s side at once, Samantha thanked him and rushed indoors where she followed the sound of voices to the parlor. The sight she beheld when she paused in the doorway made her stomach contract. She forced a deep breath to steady her pulse even as the tips of her fingers started to tremble.
Murry and Elks had not wasted time, their efficiency that of two army surgeons trained to treat soldiers in the midst of a battle. Adrian’s jacket, waistcoat, and shirt had all been removed in the brief time she’d taken to speak with the footman. He now sat astride a chair, facing backward, his knuckles white as he gripped the backrest. Elks, who stood before him with a drink between his hands, helped Adrian take the occasional sip while Murry probed the wound with a long metal tool.
Adrian gasped, eyes squeezing shut against the torment his valet was causing. A deeper movement andAdrian’s muscles flexed as he gripped the chair harder, his anguish audible in his accompanying groan.
It physically pained Samantha to watch, even though she knew it had to be done. If fragments from Adrian’s clothes remained inside him, the wound could fester.
Murry dabbed at the raw flesh with a cloth he’d rinsed in another glass, Adrian’s twisted expression informing Samantha that alcohol was being used. Though she wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight, she crossed the floor and relieved Elks of his task so he could fetch a compress.
It took an hour to finish cleaning Adrian up and get him into bed. After seeing to her own toilette, Samantha climbed in beside him, her thoughts on the culprit they’d handed over to Bow Street earlier. A part of her wished she had killed the man for what he’d done, though she had to acknowledge how drastic that would have been.
Still, she vowed to seek justice in some form or other. Tonight’s incident could not go unpunished. She’d deal with the matter tomorrow, after she slept. But the tension thrumming through her kept her from sleep a long while after. With her gaze directed toward the ceiling, she listened to Adrian’s steady breathing and prayed there would be no fever.
Eventually, when the dim light of dawn spilled beneath the edge of the curtains, she found the rest she needed.
And yet, it was only a little after eight in themorning when she woke. Her first task was to check Adrian’s forehead, relief lightening her heart when she found him cool to the touch. With careful movements to keep from waking him from his deep slumber, she slid from the bed and proceeded to dress.
Two new daggers would have to be purchased. Regrettably, last night’s attack had resulted in losing the one she’d received from Adrian as a gift. Yet another reason why she was so bloody angry. That fine piece of steel with its mother-of-pearl handle and exquisite etchings had been her most prized possession.
Shopping for its replacement wouldn’t be easy. It would also have to wait a while. First, she had a call to make.
One hour later, after eating a hasty breakfast, she made her way to Stanton House with a purposeful stride. The building, located on Grosvenor Square, looked no different from all the ones flanking it. White, with matching cornices, balustrades, and stonework. The only difference was the brass number attached to the door.
Samantha gave the knocker a few loud raps and was soon admitted by the Stanton House butler.
“I’m afraid the viscount is out,” the servant informed her a few minutes later after checking to see if his master was available to see her.
“Really?” Samantha glanced past the older man’s shoulder and made her decision. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to confirm that for myself.”
