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He brushed the strands of hair off her forehead. “I’m here.”

“Is it over? Is he . . . ?” She paused and looked around, taking in the devastation around her for the first time.

Jonas glanced at Alexander. He nodded grimly, and Jonas’s stomach churned. “The Midnight Master will never terrorize anyone along this coastline again, Miss Allerton.”

He helped her rise to a sitting position on the floor. Her gaze immediately settled on the largest bloodstain on her dress, and she covered her eyes with her hand and shuddered. “He met me on the road to Langton Manor and insisted I return to the inn with him. If I hadn’t agreed, he would not have come, and by so doing, he would have escaped your snare.”

“So you risked your life,” Jonas said.

“And yours,” she said. Her lip was trembling. “Forgive me. It seems that I have done that to two Lord Langtons now.” Her voice was heavy with self-reproach—something he must rid her of immediately.

“Miss Allerton, up until today, I believed my father’s death was all for naught. Despite his ultimate sacrifice, the Alouette went aground, those aboard were killed, and the smugglers continued their lawless work unabated. Now I know that it was not. Something good did come from that terrible night after all. Although my father died, your life was spared, and that knowledge makes a world of difference.”

The pounding of feet in the passageway interrupted them. Jonas looked up to see another stranger race into the room.

“This is Mr. Barlow,” Alexander said, pointing to the man at his side. “And that’s Mr. Toole.” He inclined his head toward the man who’d just entered the office. “Bow Street runners. They arrived just after Forwood and Miss Allerton entered the room. Barlow was at the door; Toole went for the window.”

The man called Barlow acknowledged the introduction. “Nicely done, my lord. Knowing what the two of you were up to in here made all the difference. Toole needed only one clear shot to hit his mark without injuring the hostage—and you gave it to him.”

“He . . . he shot the Midnight Master through the window?” Miss Allerton said.

“Yes, miss. When I opened the door, the perpetrator turned and exposed his back to Toole.”

“You have my deepest thanks,” Jonas said.

“All in the line of a runner’s work, my lord.” Toole shifted his feet awkwardly. “Sorry we got here a bit late.”

“You arrived when it mattered most,” Jonas said. He took off his coat and slipped it over Miss Allerton's shoulders. She was beginning to shake rather violently. “Are you quite well?” he asked with renewed concern.

She nodded. “I am. Truly. I . . . I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“It’s the shock, my lord,” Toole said. “It takes some people that way.”

Without another word, Jonas slipped one arm beneath her legs, wrapped the other around her back, and lifted her off the floor. Holding her close, he turned to Alexander, who was standing over Forwood’s inert body, consulting with Barlow. The awfulness of the situation swept over him in a sickening wave. This was no place for Miss Allerton.

“We need the carriage posthaste,” he said.

“It’s on its way, my lord,” Toole said. “Lord Bloxley mentioned he’d sent it on to Lydden Green when we first got here and saw no sign of you. I stopped by the stable on my way back in. The stable lad’s gone for it.”

“My thanks once again, Toole,” Jonas said. “If you have any further need of me, I will be in the inn’s front room awaiting the carriage’s arrival with Miss Allerton.”

“Very good, my lord,” Toole said, and Jonas thought he saw a hint of approval in his eyes. It seemed that even experienced lawmen knew when enough was enough.

Chapter 27

Elizabeth opened her eyes to the morning sunlight pouring in through the windows of the yellow guest chamber at Langton Manor. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. It was a sensation all the more precious because of its rarity, and she offered a silent prayer that despite all that still lay ahead, the feeling might continue.

Peeling back the bed covers, she examined her legs. Half a dozen cuts covered the skin beneath the hem of her simple white shift, mementos of the flying glass in Cyrus Doyle’s office. The cuts no longer stung, and Elizabeth was grateful for Mrs. Beecham’s ministrations in the middle of the night. The housekeeper was a saint; she’d not complained once about being roused in the early hours of the morning to tend to Elizabeth.

Indeed, Mrs. Beecham had been unstintingly thorough. When she’d learned what happened at the inn, not only had she insisted on Elizabeth’s taking a bath so she might scrub away all trace of Forwood’s blood, but she’d also taken away her old blue dress, muttering about throwing it in the fire. Thankfully, someone had unloaded the trunk Elizabeth had brought with her from Finley Park, and since the Duchess of Kelbrook had insisted that she take her made-over dresses with her to the earl’s town house, she had something fresh to wear.

She walked over to the window seat and sat down, tucking her legs beneath the shift’s voluminous white fabric and looking out at the restful scene below. It was hard to believe that criminal and violent activity had occurred in the neighboring village so recently as last night. Even with the wounds on her legs to prove her involvement, it seemed like a distant nightmare.

Elizabeth could not think on her ride back to the inn with the Midnight Master without her throat tightening. They had spoken only a few words the entire ride, but the man’s very being was as dark as his cloak and horse. She had thought she knew fear when he’d forced her into Cyrus’s office with a gun to her ribs, but that had been nothing to what she’d experienced when he’d turned that same pistol on Lord Langton.

Elizabeth dropped her head to her knees, trying to block out the images of broken glass, blood, and Lord Forwood’s body. She’d been so grateful to Lord Langton for removing her from the room. They’d not talked. He’d simply held her until her shaking had subsided and the carriage had arrived. Then they’d ridden to Langton Manor with Lord Bloxley. Keeping his coat over her, Lord Langton had laid her across the length of one of the seats, and she’d fallen into a fitful sleep, vaguely aware that the two gentlemen were maintaining a quiet conversation across from her but too emotionally drained to listen in.

She raised her head at the sound of birdsong. The swallows were swooping and swirling above the stable, and she wondered at the joy they exhibited in such rapid changes of direction. Her own path was still unclear. The Bow Street runners had taken charge of Lord Forwood’s body, along with the two men who had been confined to the hidden room. She assumed both Cyrus Doyle and Mr. Cummings would see the inside of Newgate Prison very soon. She did not know what would become of the inn or, come to that, what would become of her.