London 1815
Aurelian de la Tomber felt the bullet rip through his arm, rebounding off bone and travelling on to some further softer place in his side. Standing perfectly still, he waited, for life, or for death, his blood racing as vision lightened.
After a long moment he wondered if he might lose consciousness altogether and be found here by others in this damning position, caught red-handed and without excuse. Catching his balance, he breathed in hard and fast, his mind calculating all the variables in the situation as he struggled for logic.
The bullet had patently not pierced an artery for the flow from his wounds was already slowing. The heavy beat of blood in his ears suggested that his heart still worked despite the intrusion and, with careful movement, his impaired balance might also be manageable. That he could even reason any of this out was another plus and if the sweat on his forehead and upper lip was building he knew this to be a normal part of shock. Still, he had no idea of how deep the bullet had gone and the pain numbed in the first moment of impact was rising. A good sign that, he thought, for in the quickening of discomfort lay the first defence in a body’s quest for living.
The man before him was dead and no longer any threat, the blood from his neck pooling on to a thick rug. Kicking away the gun, Aurelian turned to the door. People would have heard the shot, he was certain of it, for the upmarket boarding house on Brompton Place was well inhabited. Unlacing his neckcloth, he used his teeth to anchor the end of the fabric before winding it as tightly as he could around his upper arm. It was all he could do for now. It would staunch the flow and allow him a passage of escape. Hopefully.
When he began to shake he cursed, the world blurring before him and moving in a strange and convoluted way. It felt as if he was on the deck of a ship in a storm, his footfalls not quite where he placed them, the roiling world making him nauseous.
‘Merde.’
The expletive was short and harsh. He had to get as far from here as he could before he collapsed. Placing his good hand against the wall, he counted the rises. Fourteen on one set of stairs and another fourteen on the next. He always knew how many steps went up or down in every building he entered, for it was part of his training and laxity led to mistakes. His breathing was laboured and he coughed to hide the noise as he passed by the small blue room to one side of the lobby. He was relieved to see that the watcher who’d been there when he arrived a quarter of an hour ago was now absent.
The front door was ten footfalls from the base of the stairs, the fourth tile risen and badly cracked, then the door handle was in his grasp. Blood made his fingers slip from the metal and he wiped his palm against his jacket before trying again.
Finally he was out, the cold of the night on his face, a blustery nor’wester, he reasoned as he turned, the stone wall a new anchor, a way to walk straight. His nails dug into the crumbling mortar, scraggly plants reaching up from the pathway and smelling of something akin to the chestnuts roasting on open fires on the Champs-Élysées at Christmas.
That wasn’t right, he thought.
There were no vendors at this time of night in Brompton Place in Chelsea. He closed his eyes and then opened them again quickly. Brompton Road lay before him and then Hyde Park. If he could get there he would be safe, for the greenery would hide him. He could take stock of things in solitude and stuff his jacket with grass to staunch the blood. If he followed the tree lines he could find sanctuary and silence. It was cold and the fingers on his left hand felt strange, the pins and needles lessening now down to nothingness.
If this had been Paris, he thought, he would have known countless alleys to simply disappear into and numerous contacts from whom to find help. He swore again, only this time his voice sounded distant and hollow.
Falling heavily, he knew he could no longer stand, but there was a grate that led to an underground drain in the gutter and he crawled there until his fingers closed on cold metal. He lifted the covering, straining for all he was worth, the weight of the thing throwing him backwards on to the road, slick with the black ice of a freezing January morning. His head took the knock of it as he slammed against the cobbles.
The sound of carriage wheels close by was his last thought before a tunnel of darkness took him in.
Violet Augusta Juliet, the Dowager Viscountess Addington, should never have encouraged the Honourable Alfred Bigglesworth to air his opinions on horseflesh because all night she had been forced to pay attention to them. No, she should have smiled nicely and moved on when he first waylaid her at the Barringtons’ ball, but there had been something in his expression that looked rather desperate and so she had listened.
It was both her best and worst point, she thought, this worry for other people’s feelings and her need to make them...happy. She shook her head and turned to gaze out of the carriage window and into the darkness. Happy was not quite the word she sought. Valued was a better one, perhaps. Frowning at such ruminations, she removed her gloves. She’d never liked her hands wrapped in fabric and it was a nightly habit of hers to tear off the strictures as soon as she was able. Her cap followed.
‘Mr Bigglesworth seemed to have taken your fancy, Violet?’
Amaryllis Hamilton sat beside her in the carriage, dark eyes observant, and Violet felt a spurt of guilt for she’d meant to leave earlier as she knew her sister-in-law had only recently recovered from a malady of the chest.
She continued, ‘He is said to be a sterling catch and those who know him speak highly of the family.’
Her tone was playful and dimples showed plainly, but Violet hoped Amara might have said all she wanted to. However, she was not yet finished.
‘You deserve a good man to walk in life beside you, Violet, and I pray nightly to the Lord above that you might yet find one.’
This was a conversation that had been ongoing across the past twelve months between them, but tonight Violet was irritated by it. ‘I have attained the grand old age of twenty-seven, Amara, and I am not on the lookout for another husband. Thank goodness.’
That echo of honesty had her sitting up straighter, the wedding ring on