The door opened a little more and Francis moved forward. The sight of a pistol had him skidding to an abrupt halt. It was pointed directly at him.
Francis was rendered speechless as a young woman stepped out of the warehouse. And she wasn’t just any woman—it was the girl he had met along the wharf road. The grocer’s assistant. She was clad in a low-cut nightgown.
What is she doing here?
Her long, fair hair tumbled down to kiss the top of her bare shoulders. A medallion on a gold chain sat between her breasts. As his gaze settled on her pale, cream flesh, all thoughts of violence fled his mind. She held him spellbound. Even the fear of the pistol couldn’t stop Francis from sneaking a peek at the swell of her bust. It was generous, buxom. And perfect.
It was only when his brain finally registered the click of the gun being cocked that Francis finally tore his gaze from ogling the woman and shifted it back to the weapon.
Her skills with a pistol seemed far better than her ability to carry eggs and butter. There seemed little chance of her dropping it.
“You have until the count of three to move away before I put a bullet in your head,” she announced in a calm voice.
“I . . . but . . .”
“One.”
“I need to talk to P. Basden. Is he your employer?” he replied
“Two.”
A now frantic Francis rummaged in his pocket, hurriedly searching for the letter. He held the screwed-up paper in his trembling hand. “I have a letter. This is London. Y-you can’t just go shooting people.”
“Three.”
The loud echo of gunfire rang in his ears, and he dropped like a stone.
Chapter Eighteen
The instant Francis cracked open an eyelid, he was certain that his head was about to explode. Pain screamed down his back. Even his toes uttered their protest.
“Oh, bloody hell!” he cried.
“That’s one way of putting it,” said a female voice.
He squinted through the agony, trying to focus on where the sound was coming from. Something pale pink and yellow filled his vision. When his sight eventually cleared, he realized it was a woman’s face.
The blonde beauty stared down at him. Her rosy cheeks were a perfect flush. Unfortunately, her similarly hued lips were set in a hard, disapproving line.
“I expect you are in a spot of discomfort,” she added.
Woman. Pain. Gunshot.
It all came rushing back in a fury. He had knocked on the door of number fourteen and the woman from the grocery store had answered it. His last memory was of her pointing a loaded pistol at him. Not exactly the sort of welcome he would have expected to receive from a girl in service.
“You shot me.”
A soft chortle echoed in his pain-addled brain. “No, I didn’t.”
A hand took hold of his and gripped tight. There was a tug of upward pressure, which took Francis a second or two to comprehend.
“Oh, come on, don’t be completely useless. You are more than capable of helping me to get you upright.”
While the woman pulled on his left hand, Francis scrambled to place his right hand on the stone floor. He flinched as he put pressure on it. Even his palms hurt.
Between the two of them, they worked to lift him to a seated position. As soon as he got upright, all the blood rushed to his head and Francis clutched at the woman’s arm. A wave of woozy nausea washed over him.
“Oh, my head,” he complained.
