She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. The moment felt too big, too important—and yet, here she was, standing in the same study where she had once begged permission to keep a stray kitten, feeling much the same sense of futility.
“I was at the House of Commons yesterday.”
Her father’s brows lifted a fraction. “Were you?”
“Yes.”
He did not ask why. She was both relieved and vaguely mortified.
“I saw what happened,” she continued, gripping her hands together. “I saw the shot that killed him. And it was not the man they arrested.”
Her father’s expression did not change.
“It wasnotBellingham!“ she pressed, heart pounding. “His pistol misfired. I saw it. There was another shooter.”
“Mm.”
That was all.
Not “Good God, Elizabeth, are you certain?” or “This is of vital importance! We must speak to someone at once!”—just a quiet, utterly indifferent murmur.
Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “Father!”
“Petal?”
“You do not believe me.”
“I believe that youbelievewhat you saw.”
Her temper flared. “That is not the same thing.”
Her father leaned back in his chair, regarding her with the same half-amused, half-dismissive expression he had worn for years.
“And you think,” he said, tapping his fingers against the armrest, “that the Prime Minister of England was murdered in cold blood by an unknown second shooter, and that no one but my daughter—who had no business being there in the first place—managed to see it?”
“Yes.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Elizabeth.”
She knew that tone. The one he used when he was about to placate her with empty reassurances before sending her off to do something more ladylike.
“I am certain,” he said, “that whatever you saw felt very serious indeed. But Parliament is full of ministers and officials. If there had been another gunman, it would have been noticed.”
“No, it would not,” she insisted. “Because I was not supposed to be there, so I was hiding. I had a vantage point no one else had. I saw something—”
“And I am sure the ministers will handle it.”
She inhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. “You do not understand—”
“I understand,” her father interrupted, pushing back from his desk with a heavy sigh. “I understand that Spencer Perceval’s assassination is a tragedy, and that it has caused a great many headaches among those of us who actually have a role in government. I understand that I have spent the last day in endless meetings while the entire House of Lords determines how best to proceed. And I understand, my dear, that you are not involved in any of it.”
Elizabeth stiffened.
“I am trying to tell you—”
“You are telling me a fine story.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “I am telling you the truth.”
