A coward’s death for the coward you are.
“And chose to die by my hand rather than face the inevitable.” Except, in doing so, she’d damned Gabriella. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry, Peter. I—”
“It’s all right.”
“How can you say that?” Her eyes were burning from all the tears and her throat felt raw. “None of this is all right.”
“I will do whatever I have to in order to make sure you’re safe.”
An impossible promise to make and for what? Once he had a chance to think this through, he’d surely realize that he was better off without her.
Emotionally exhausted, she slumped against the squabs and said no more as the carriage continued toward their destination.
It wasn’t long before it drew to a halt. Peter opened the door and alighted, then offered his hand to help her down. She climbed from the carriage and paused. Her gaze slid over the building before her. This wasn’t Bow Street or home. This was Number 5 Portman Square.
She turned to Peter. “Why are we here?”
“Because if there’s anyone who can help you navigate what lies ahead, it’s Mr. Croft.”
“No.” When Peter took her arm and attempted to lead her toward the front door, she dug in her heals. “The man is a known criminal.”
“He certainly walks a delicate line,” Peter agreed. “However, he has never been proven guilty of any actual crime. Besides killing Benjamin Lawrence. A situation not entirely dissimilar to the one in which you now find yourself.”
She clenched her jaw. “I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I for the most part. That doesn’t mean he’s not your best hope at the moment.”
“He’s untrustworthy.” She shook her head, hating the idea of having to fall on Mr. Croft’s mercy. Worse, of owing him anything.
“Most people are,” Peter said. “At least Mr. Croft has a code of honor he sticks to. If he says he’ll help you, I believe he will.”
She still didn’t like it one bit. Croft’s highhanded manner grated on her every nerve. While he’d never been disrespectful toward her personally, she detested the way in which he’d condescended to Peter in the past.
The chief constable’s job was far from easy. He had her utmost respect. More than that, he had her heart, so if he insisted she seek Croft’s advice, she would.
Even though it felt like her stomach had been carved out, she raised her chin. “Very well.”
They crossed the wet pavement together. What had been a slow drizzle when they’d left Shoe Lane had since ceased. The wind, too, had died leaving everything still and glassy beneath the gaslights.
Gabriella continued to tremble. She couldn’t seem to stop. While she’d managed to find the wherewithal to speak, her body could not forget what she’d been through this evening. It seemed to protest every breath she took, every heartbeat pushing blood through her veins. She would pay for what she had done. Of this she had no doubt. Clasping her hands together, she tried to hold them still, only to fail.
Peter fisted his hand and knocked. It took a while before the door opened.
Mr. Croft’s butler swept his blunt gaze over their faces. “Yes?”
“I realize our coming here at this late hour is less than ideal,” Peter said. “Especially after this evening’s events. We wouldn’t have done so unless it was absolutely necessary. It’s vital I speak with Croft.”
The butler pulled the door wider without saying a word, and stepped back so they could enter. It wasn’t until he’d shut the door behind them that he said, “As you can probably imagine, Mr. Croft is tending his wife. I’ll see if he’ll agree to meet with you but I cannot promise anything.”
“Tell him there’s been another murder and that the villain is dead by Miss Hastings’s hand.”
Gabriella shrank from the butler’s penetrating gaze, her attention dropping to the tips of his shoes. Hugging herself, she tried to keep her mind blank, to avoid letting the ghastly memories from the last few hours fill her head.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said the butler. “Please feel free to wait in the parlor.”
Light pressure at Gabriella’s right elbow alerted her to the press of Peter’s hand as he tried to guide her. She turned beneath his touch and placed one foot in front of the other. Careful and deliberate even as images flashed through her mind.
Sally Finch moving slowly toward her. You should not be here.
