The man acting as Mr Smith raised his brows in genuine surprise at Darius’s use of his real name. But then he held Eliza tighter, pushed the knife closer. “She comes with me. If you follow, I’ll stab her in the belly.”
He was helpless to act as Frederick, the two henchmen and Percival fled the room, the former magistrate closing the door and turning the lock.
*
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She’d killed a man. Eliza had spent months condemning her sister for not finding another way with their father, for not coming to her for help, for shooting him dead in his desk chair. For months she had watched as Gabriella seemed not to feel any anguish over the murder at all. She’d kept saying it was the only way. Is that what this was for Eliza? The only way?
Darius hadn’t appeared angry with her when he’d burst into the room, Marcus at his side. Hope had swelled in her chest but as the Earl of Wickham’s blood dried on her face and in her hair, that hope had faded. At least she didn’t have to be scared anymore. Darius would save her siblings. He would. Why else would he have followed them all the way to London?
The sound of metal clanging and shots firing met her ears in the corridor. They were the sounds of a fierce fight. Eliza smiled numbly as she was hauled up a flight of stairs. Finally, after months of unrest, her brothers and sisters would be safe. She found she didn’t even particularly care what came next for her or what had just happened. Wickham deserved death and now he’d found it.
“Which way?” the man who held her hissed at his companions. Darius had called him Frederick on purpose. Not Smith.
She recalled how shock had lit his slim features as Wickham had presented her to him, like a gift he could take and do with what he wanted. Mr Smith, the cutthroat criminal, would have been used to times like these ones. The man who held her clearly was not.
When he’d politely declined the use of her body, something about a possessive mistress already on his arm, Wickham had simply shrugged and made a comment about sharing her around. He’d taken the bodice of her ancient travelling gown in his hands and ripped the fabric with ease, an insane bent to his determination.
Eliza remembered the seconds that had followed. As he pulled her to his chest, his breath reeking of wine and fish, she’d reached for a plate to conk him with, a mug, anything, but then her hand had closed around silverware. It could have been a fork or a spoon for all she cared. The next thing she knew, the utensil had found a mark on the earl’s throat. Instead of being appalled at her actions, she’d pulled the knife out, ready to stab at anyone who dared touch her again. She hadn’t meant to kill him but there wasn’t a part of her that regretted it. He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t harass Darius. He couldn’t twist the tale of this night once it was finally over, if it ever ended.
When they rounded another corner, a woman stood in their way, a pistol in her hand and a smile on her lips.
Mr Smith and his men stopped. One of the henchman, the one with the lantern, saw her and his face contorted into a half grin. “Two birds with one stone?” he mocked with an evil smile. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“Good day to you, gentlemen,” the woman called as though welcoming tea visitors. She was dressed in a gown of the highest fashion and the most expensive forest-green fabric, her red hair pulled tight into a plait that swung over her shoulder when she stepped forward.
The other henchman scowled. “Who the hell are you?”
The woman spoke again, her smug smile still in place. “I am Daniella Germaine. Perhaps you’ve heard of my father, Captain Richard Germaine?”
All the men shook their heads, bewildered. Eliza inwardly cursed but the knife at her throat wasn’t nearly as close now and she breathed deep.
“No matter. You will let the lady go,” Daniella Germaine demanded.
The man holding her shrugged and pushed Eliza hard in Daniella’s direction. Unprepared for the man’s compliance, the other woman almost didn’t catch her. In a mess of arms and legs and shrieks, they both fell. Eliza scrambled to untangle the pistol from their skirts, having fallen on the steel, but the men didn’t advance. Sir Percival muttered something unintelligible and took off in the other direction, escaping whatever was to happen next.
The one who held the lantern made a tsk, tsk sound and then said, “’Tis a pity such fine ladies have to die like this.” He turned to the one who had held Eliza and asked, “Are you sure we can’t have some fun with ’em first?”
Mr Smith shook his head. “No time. Start the fire and let’s get out of here. There are too many of them. We don’t stand a chance with hostages.”
The man with the lantern thought about it but then added, “We aren’t low enough yet. The fire will only burn up. Didn’t Smith want no traces left behind?”
“You let me deal with Smith. The smoke should be enough to kill everyone left even if the flames do not. I want to be well away before it takes hold.”
She hated the way the men so casually spoke of murder as though they partook in the act on a daily basis. Perhaps they did? Her stomach churned.
The lantern was held aloft, a wicked glint in the man’s eye. When her father had taught her how to use a gun, he’d told her if you pointed it at
