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Harriet, through this, had been standing with her father’s arm about her, staring, unblinking, and unmoving. He’d never seen her so pale, nor so motionless.

‘Harriet,’ he said softly, moving into the room with caution. ‘Harriet, darling?’

Slowly, she blinked, then nodded, as if to confirm his presence, and then her beautiful face crumpled.

‘You are alive?’ she whispered.

‘Oh, love. I am. I am.’

He strode forward and held open his arms. She walked into them, carefully touched his face with cold, trembling fingertips, and then fell against his chest, and sobbed. Oh, how she sobbed. Huge, uncontrollable cries that were torn from her heart.

He wrapped her in his arms as tightly as he could, face against her hair as his own eyes watered at her distress. He had never, in all the years he had known her, seen Lady Harriet Cavendish weep, but here she was in his arms, crying for him.

He looked up and caught Ellice’s eye. The man wrapped an arm about Eliza and motioned for Hart to see to Lady Liz, who was crying softly, and the duke, who was motionless. Ellice moved swiftly, emptying the room with efficiency, leaving Granville alone with Harriet.

He guided her to the sofa, and they sat together in front of the roaring fire with her still in his arms. Eventually, her sobs subsided into sad hiccoughs, but still she remained holding on to him tightly as he stroked her hair and crooned soft words of love.

When she settled, she lay against him with her head on his shoulder, one hand stroking his chest.

‘What happened?’ she asked, eventually. ‘Are you hurt? You’re covered in blood. Do you need a doctor?’

Granville stroked her hair. ‘I’m not hurt. It… It’s not my blood.’

‘Was someone shot?’

Granville swallowed. ‘Yes, it was someone else. Not me. Though the man was looking for me. He had a grievance from when I was Russian ambassador, but he couldn’t find me.’

He felt her nod. ‘Hart thought it was you.’

‘So did a lot of people. Word went out that I was the victim, and when I realised Hart had gone to you, I knew what he might have said, so I ran the whole way.’

‘The whole way? Uphill?’

He smiled into her hair. ‘The roads were such a mess with people everywhere that a carriage could not get through. I ran the whole way, and may I tell you, for a man of my advanced years, it was no mean feat.’

She didn’t laugh, just carried on stroking him.

‘Who was hurt?’

Granville’s throat tightened, and it was a moment before he could respond. ‘It… it was Spencer Perceval. The Prime Minister. He shot the Prime Minister.’ Even he could hear the disbelief in his voice.

Harriet struggled in his arms and sat up to look at him. ‘Dear God. Is he dead?’

Granville’s voice failed him and he could only nod.

Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘His poor wife. His poor children.’

Granville squeezed his eyes shut. He could barely believe it himself. When he thought of Perceval’s wife, Jane, and the children, he had many children, he couldn’t bear it.

Harriet shifted on the sofa and pulled his head onto her shoulder, where she held him tightly until he recovered himself. He felt her kiss the top of his head, run her hands over his shoulders and back, and rock him gently. It was as though she could discern his grief and his horror that he should be the reason for a good man lying dead without being told.

When he pulled out of her embrace, she let him go with a kiss to his forehead and sat beside him. He took hold of her hand, wondering how he would have felt in her place. How he would have felt if he’d been told she was dead.

He knew in his heart he could not have borne it because he knew with every last fibre of his being that he loved this woman. Had loved her for a long time but had not had the courage or honesty to admit it to himself, let alone her.

She ran her thumb over his knuckles, then brought his hand to her lips and kissed it softly.

‘It’s been quite a day,’ she said, looking directly at him for the first time.