“Whatever you wish,” Adrian whispered, his fingers gently stroking her arm.
Soothed by his touch, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to rest while they traveled the rest of the way home in silence.
It was well after midnight by the time Peter returned to Bow Street. Despite being beyond the point of exhaustion, he wanted to learn if Gabriella had managed to warn Mr. Kipling. If so, Lewis and Anderson would have invited the man to come here. In which case, Peter wanted to speak with him.
He entered the building but stopped dead at the sight of Yates. The coachman, who sat on the bench near the wall, stood as soon as he registered Peter’s arrival.
“Mr. Kendrick.” Yates hastened toward him, increasing Peter’s unease. “I was told to fetch you. Lewis said there’s been a murder, that the killer escaped, and that he and Anderson had to give chase. Miss Hastings stayed behind with the body.”
“Take me to her at once,” Peter said. It would be a much longer night than he’d bargained for.
Damn. The information they’d gleaned about the next victim had come too late. Peter’s Runners had arrived too late and now the killer could be in the wind. Worse, she’d now know they were on her trail — that they’d soon make enough connections to figure out who she was.
With three men dead, all of them friends who’d served in the army together, it would just be a matter of time at this point. But if she was able to get away, she might avoid capture forever.
Peter climbed into the carriage and prayed his Runners had managed to apprehend the woman. It would save them all a great deal of extra work. Lord help him, he needed this win.
His thoughts shifted to Gabriella and his gut twisted on her behalf. Having seen what the killer had done to the previous victims, he couldn’t imagine her having to be alone with the corpse. All he could do was hope it had not been for long.
Impatient to reach her, he tapped one foot on the floor and drummed his fingers against the bench as the carriage weaved its way through the streets. The destination wasn’t far. It probably didn’t take more than ten minutes to reach it, even though it felt like twice as much time.
He alighted from the carriage and approached Number 17 Shoe Lane. The door opened without issue, admitting him to a modest foyer. He stepped forward and paused, his hand still on the door handle, when he noted the hints of an altercation having occurred.
A vase lay broken near the foot of the stairs. Flowers were strewn around it. A piece of torn fabric lay a little farther away. And… His heart clenched. Was that blood spatter on the wall?
“Gabriella?” He shouted her name without thinking, then realized his error and quickly called out for Lewis and Anderson. Surely they would have returned here to wait with Miss Hastings until Peter arrived.
“In here.” Lewis’s voice was loud and clear. It came from within the nearest room.
Peter approached, directing a swift glance toward the stairs when he registered someone’s presence there. It was Anderson who’d stepped onto the landing, the ominous expression he wore sending a sliver of apprehension down Peter’s spine.
He acknowledged him with a nod, then entered the room he’d been heading toward — a small, dimly lit parlor — and froze in response to the sight he beheld. Dear God. Panic shot through his veins. He darted a look at Lewis, whose expression was grim.
“She’s been like this since we returned,” Lewis whispered. “We thought we were chasing the killer, but that was merely a trick the woman had devised. The man she murdered is upstairs. Looks like his throat was slit after he died, just like it was with Orwell. Anderson has been making sketches.”
“Thank you, Lewis.”
Anxious to reach Gabriella, Peter moved, only to halt when Lewis added, “There’s also the woman we believe she impersonated. The real Mrs. Rivers, that is. She’s in the room next to this one. Unconscious.”
“But she lives?”
“Yes, though it seems she took a hard hit to the back of her head. There’s no telling what state she’ll be in when she comes to — if she’ll even remember what happened.”
Peter nodded, then shifted his attention to the woman he’d fallen in love with. Gone was the vibrancy, that stubborn determination that irked him while also filling him with admiration, the fire that always burned in her eyes.
Gabriella was but a shell. Seated on the floor and huddled against the far corner, she clutched something to her while staring into nothing. A lifeless body lay at her feet in a messy sprawl.
The only light in the room came from the fireplace on the opposite side. It cast a flickering glow across the ceiling, leaving the rest of the space in various degrees of shadow. An oil lamp would be required if Peter was going to assess the scene properly.
Expelling a breath, he went to collect the one that sat on the hallway table.
“Go help Anderson,” Peter told Lewis.
The Runner did as requested without hesitation, leaving Peter alone with Gabriella and the woman she’d killed. He hesitated briefly, then crossed the floor and dropped to a crouch beside Gabriella. She didn’t so much as budge, as though she’d not even registered him being present.
He placed the oil lamp on the floor then set his palm against Gabriella’s cheek. She flinched, but stayed, so he turned her head in his direction. Gently, until their eyes met. Until he was sure she saw only him.
His thumb stroked the side of her neck in an effort to soothe. “You’re all right. I’m here now.”
