The pistol went off with an ear-splitting crack. The shot buried itself in the door frame, inches from where Hartenberg stood. Plaster dust hung in the air. The room filled with the sharp bite of powder smoke, and for one suspended moment, nobody moved at all.
Then Evie levelled her own pistol squarely at the Baroness’s chest.
“I don’t like it when strangers touch me, you see,” Evie said sweetly.
The woman gave a disbelieving laugh.
“Evie.” Hartenberg’s voice remained perfectly calm. “You may lower your pistol.”
His men swarmed the room, pushing the woman back against the far wall with their weapons levelled at her chest.
“What a clever little thing you are. Outplayed and outmanoeuvred; I ought to have expected it, of course.” The Baroness dropped her empty pistol to the floor with a clatter and began to peel off her black lace gloves.
“Don’t move,” Evie warned her.
“I ammerely removing my gloves, if you will permit me. There is no harm in that.” She peeled back the first glove with unhurried fingers. Evie’s grip tightened on the trigger.
“The truth is, I did expect it,” the Baroness continued conversationally, as though she were presiding over a salon rather than facing a circle of armed men. “One never goes into these situations imagining they will unfold precisely as one wishes.” She drew off the second glove.
It was then that Evie saw it: a small vial, tucked inside the silk, now nestled in her palm. Before Evie could speak, the woman flicked her wrist and sent the glass spinning towards them.
The flash came first, followed by a deafening crack, and then the room dissolved into a cloud of thick, acrid smoke.
Through the billowing grey, Evie caught the Baroness’s silhouette in motion. She fired.
A cry pierced the haze. Then came the frantic thud of a door and retreating footsteps, followed by a sudden, heavy silence.
When the smoke thinned at last, the Baroness had vanished. Only a smear of blood remained on the floor where she had stood, trailing towards a concealed door in the panelling that hung open onto the darkness beyond.
“Evie!” Hartenberg rushed towards her, took her face between his hands and turned it to the left and right. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hands down her neck, along her shoulders and arms.
“I am not hurt.” He gathered her closely to him. She could feel his heart race.
“Thank God, thank God…”
“But I do not think you are well at all,” Evie murmured, still pressed against his shoulder because he was holding her so tightly to himself. “Are you shaking? But I was neverreally in any danger at all, not really.” She patted his shoulder blade with one hand.
His grip on her tightened, squeezing the breath from her, then he loosened his hold and stepped back. His hands travelled up again to her face, as if he still could not believe her unhurt. Then he kissed her forehead, her temples, her eyes, her nose and at last her lips, again and again, seemingly unaware of what he was doing, as though it were merely the natural continuation of his inspection.
With kisses.
His kisses slowed, then lingered, growing languid and unhurried, and it was altogether wonderful. By the time Evie’s wits returned to her and she realised quite what was happening, they were rudely interrupted.
“She disappeared, Your Excellency.” Schneider barged back into the room. “Oh. I b-beg your pardon. I will return lat?—”
“Stay and report.” Hartenberg’s voice was a bit hoarse.
“There is a back door hidden by the curtain, leading to a courtyard. She must have had this planned. The vial she chose was a cheap stage trick favoured by magicians.”
Evie, still dazed that she had just had her first kiss in such unromantic circumstances, rubbed her lips in wonder and understood only half of what Schneider had just said.
“Though I must say, that was quite a trick with the flash and the smoke. Lady Evangeline, are you well?”
“Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat.
“Evie!” Clara rushed into the room, looking pale and distraught. “Are you all right?”
“I truly am, Clara. I am unhurt.” She pressed Clara’s hands.
