He was standing in conversation with another gentleman, his posture easy yet authoritative, his dark hair tousled with just the right amount of studied carelessness.
Elizabeth tilted her head, considering. Was he truly as handsome as she had imagined? Or had she exaggerated his charms in her mind? He did have a rather serious expression—perhaps too serious. And his spectacles did nothing to enhance the sharpness of his jawline, for it was rather… soft. But he was so easy and confident, and spoke so well—
She was so occupied with these vital contemplations that she did not immediately notice the strange tension in the air.
It was a shift, subtle at first—like the calm before a storm. She became vaguely aware that the conversation in the lobby had grown quieter, as if the air itself had turned thick and expectant. A few gentlemen glanced toward the entrance, their gazes uneasy.
Elizabeth barely had time to frown before—
A crack—an explosion of some kind.
The world split apart. The noise thundered through the chamber, reverberating off marble and stone.
Elizabeth jerked backward, the sound piercing through her bones. For a moment, she could not comprehend it. Had that been a shot? A misfire? A door slamming? She snatched her gaze around the room. Everyone was looking about them, but there appeared to be no singular point of crisis.
Then—a second report.
Closer. Muffled… an echo? No, for something tore through the air past her ear.
The world exploded into movement. A man staggered. Gasps. Screams. Running footsteps. The crash of a chair overturning.
Elizabeth clutched at the cold stone of the column behind her, her breath strangled in her throat. Someone had been shot.
She saw it—saw the man crumple, his hands clutching at his chest—but her mind had not yet made sense of it.
And then she saw him.
A man—one of the officials—staggered, his hands clutching his chest, his expression frozen in disbelief. Blood bloomed across his waistcoat, staining the fine fabric like ink spilled upon parchment. He swayed, confusion writ into every line of his face before his knees gave way.
Someone screamed. A woman? A man? The sound blurred into the thick haze of voices.
Men surged forward. Others backed away in horror. A pistol had been fired. Two pistols? No—one. Only one. She was sure of it… she thought.
Elizabeth could not move. She could only watch as the man—a man she recognized now as the Prime Minister himself—collapsed upon the marble floor.
Spencer Perceval was dead.
Somewhere, a man was shouting. “Bellingham! It was Bellingham!”
Elizabeth gasped and strained—a crush of men all descending upon a man with a pistol in his hand. Someone had seized him—the man named Bellingham.
He was fighting, struggling— “I am not mad! It was justice!” he cried as men wrestled him to the floor.
The walls tilted. The floor was slick with something dark. The scent of gunpowder stung the air.
Elizabeth’s breath came short, sharp. Her ribs ached. Her eyes darted wildly through the chaos, searching for something solid to anchor to when—
There.
A figure, just beyond the crush of bodies. Not running. Not fighting. Not panicking.
Tucking a small pistol inside his coat, a glint of gold on his finger the only thing catching the light.
Moving backward. Calm. Unhurried.
Her mind stuttered, and she could not tear her eyes away.Who?
That was when his gaze flicked up. Met hers.
