Smythe’s voice squeaked with fear. “I know nothing of disguises. Don’t know who he is, I tell you.”
Elizabeth shook her head, trying to comprehend the man’s anger. She was certain it was Lord St. Evert standing outside the shop. “Mr. Smythe is right. You’ve mistaken the man’s identity.”
“No mistake. One does not forget the Red Hawk.” The silk merchant, who now appeared to be anything but simple, pulled a pistol from the inside of his coat and leveled it at Smythe. “Sniveling traitor. How much did the king’s henchmen pay you, eh? Thirty pieces of silver? I hope you will enjoy it in hell.”
Smythe shook his head, continuing to back up. “No! Merót, for pity’s sake. Why would I peach on you? I’m perfectly satisfied with the blunt you—”
Merót fired.
Elizabeth jumped back.
The blast reverberated through the room, ringing in her ears. Smythe slammed sideways. He slid to the floor. Eyes wide, surprised.
Red. The color of smashed strawberries, trickled out of his chest. Spreading like an ink spill. Growing rapidly into a wine spill. Only it was blood.
She stood paralyzed. Stunned. For how long, she didn’t know. It felt like hours, like time itself had stopped moving. It might have been minutes. Hours. Or mere seconds. Acrid smoke stung her lungs. A sound came from her mouth. Ladies do not bellow. Yet, Elizabeth screamed. Until yellow fabric twisted around her neck, shutting off the sound.
Silk, made especially for her, crushed her throat, choking her to silence.
The French merchant’s voice mixed with the ringing in her ear. “You led him here, didn’t you? Spying for the Hawk. Didn’t he warn you? I do not tolerate deceit. If I had time to reload, you would already be dead.”
He twisted the fabric tighter, arching her backward. Elizabeth’s head throbbed. The ceiling turned gray, and a million tiny dots of light fluttered around the edges. Blood pounded at her temples. Thumping. Banging. Banging. Or was that someone pounding at the door.
Struggling to keep from drowning in the watery gray of unconsciousness, she heard wood splinter. The silk merchant swore and shoved her to the floor.
Elizabeth gasped, tearing at the coiled cloth around her neck, and coughed as air rushed back into her lungs.
“Izzie!”
“Valen.” She gasped. “Thank God.”
St. Evert lifted her to her knees and yanked away the rest of the yellow silk. “Izzie? Can you breathe?”
She nodded.
“You’re certain?”
As reason returned, she knew what must be done. She fell forward, clutching his shoulders, wheezing her desperate plea beside his cheek. “Catch him.” She pointed at the curtain.
He held her in one arm and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I can’t leave you. You’ve been hurt.”
She shook her head. “You must. Go. I beg you.” She struggled to breathe evenly enough to convince him. “Please.”
“Right.” He wasted no time dashing through the curtained doorway.
Elizabeth sank back on her haunches, still fighting to regulate her breath and slow her mad heartbeat.
Elizabeth glanced up when someone whistled softly through his teeth. “Cor’ bless me. If this isn’t a fine pickle.” The stranger roamed in through the fractured door.
“Summon the ward, or a constable,” she ordered.
“Bit late for that, I’d say. I am the constable, miss.” He warily approached Mr. Smythe and stooped to check for a pulse. “He’s dead, he is.” He frowned at her. “A bit of a tangle, this.” He rubbed at his chin, clearly uncertain as to how to proceed. “Not a simple thing. Not as if your purse has been nabbed, now, is it? No. Bit more complicated. I expect the magistrate will want Bow Street for a job like this.”
“Well, don’t stand there jabbering about it. Summon Bow Street. And hurry! Lord St. Evert is chasing the madman by himself. If you delay any longer, there may well be two murders rather than one.”
Elizabeth winced. It was the truth. What had possessed her to send St. Evert chasing after the murderer? He might very well end up in the same condition as Mr. Smythe. She grabbed her reeling head, fighting an urge to be sick.
How had she expected Valen to apprehend a lunatic? A lunatic with a pistol? She gingerly touched her bruised throat. Her wretched heart began thumping unevenly again. Why had she sent him into certain danger? Because, God forgive her, she was afraid. Every instinct she possessed screamed out in fear that Merót would return and finish what he’d started.
Those wretched tiny sparks at the edges of her vision returned, flickering in a whirling cloud. She vaguely heard the constable order one of the curious lads peeping in the doorway to hurry off to Bow Street and call for a Runner. It seemed like a perfectly good time to swoon.
12
Looming Considerations
When Elizabeth awakened, St. Evert was carrying her into a soothing white room. “Are we dead?”
“Not I,” he answered cryptically. “And you?”
His sarcasm was oddly reassuring. Elizabeth began to recognize her surroundings. They were entering Alison Hall. “I fainted?”
“So it would seem.” He carried her up the stairs.
“But... I’m not the swooning type.”
“I hadn’t thought so.”
Yet, she had fainted and instantly recalled the reason why. Panic reared up in her throat, gagging her. “Did you catch him?”
There were no dimples to relieve the hard lines of his face. “No. But you must not think about that. Try to breathe evenly.”
Don’t think about it, she ordered herself. Never think about it. And yet, she could not escape. The images of it repeated themselves over and over in her mind. They finally reached the top of the stairs and the familiar hallway leading to her room. Leaning against his chest, she forced herself to take regular breaths instead of the great gulps she was wont to do.
St. Evert laid her on her bed, and it seemed as if the entire household had followed them up. A handful of servants buzzed around them, and Lady Alameda stood in the doorway.
“What in heaven’s name happened to her?”
