Before Grace had a chance to protest that she was fine, the footman arrived, breathless. “I saw the man who flung it. Garbed in black, a felt hat dragged so low over his brow I couldn’t make out much of his face. Disappeared in the alleys before I could collar him.”
“Slunk back to the slums he came from, no doubt,” Neville said. “We’ll never find him in that mess of vice. I vow, it would be better if they tore such hell holes down.”
Lucien snatched the brick from Neville’s hand, and Grace saw it was covered in paper, tied with twine. He withdrew the paper, handing the brick to the footman to dispose, then unfolded the note, frowning.
“Did I not tell you this rabble is dangerous?” Neville said, glaring at him. “Attempts to kill the queen. Factories vandalized and manor houses burned. Chartists marching down St. James’s Street, shattering windows. Now your own wife endangered on your very wedding day. What will it take to get you to join us in crushing this anarchy once and for all, Everdene? They must be shown who is their master!”
Grace placed her hand on Lucien’s arm. “May I see the note?” she asked.
He handed the bit of paper to her, and she felt his gaze on her as she read the note.
Deth to Ristocrats.
We hav not to loos but ar chains.
She ran her thumb over the grinning skull drawn where a signature should be.
Neville looked on, aghast. “Are you truly involving your wife in this dangerous matter, Everdene?”
Lucien wanted to give him a set down, but the man was right. To involve Grace—and on her wedding day, no less—was a step too far. He could only be grateful his mother had gone on ahead. He waved toward the waiting coach. “We should probably get back.”
But she shook her head. “I don’t believe you will find whomever threw this stone in the stews.” She leaned close to Lucien, and he could feel her intensity, her sleeve brushing his as she returned the note to him. “Clumsy writing can be mimicked,” she said. “But someone poor would use a bit of newsprint, or some other scrap easily scrounged. This paper isas fine as any in my writing desk at The Willows. I think you are likely to find the culprit in far more comfortable circumstances.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Freyne scoffed. “There are any number of ways someone could get their hands on such paper! If they were in service, stealing it from their master’s desk. Perhaps a maid or boot boy, pinching it from a room at an inn when some nobleman has stayed there. A person who worked in a stationers.”
Lucien ran the missive between his fingers, testing the quality of the page. “Perhaps we’d be wise to listen to Lady Everdene’s reasoning.”
Lady Everdene…
He met her gaze as he used her title for the first time. “What else did you notice?”
“The writing. If you look closely, you will see here and there a very clear letter,” she said, pointing to an example. “A bold, confident stroke.”
Narrowing his eyes, he examined the script more closely. “You are most discerning.”
He could feel her warm to his praise, her voice lighter as she teased, “That is why you married me.”
“In part.” He caressed her hand, wanting to gather her into his arms, explore her body to be sure she was unbruised…to claim her as his…
But that would have to wait.
“Let us be quit of this place so I can show you the other reasons.” He handed Grace into the carriage, then felt Freyne catch hold of his arm. He turned to face the man. Again, that loathing welled up. “You are crumpling my sleeve,” he said in accents that could cut ice.
“Damn you, Everdene. If that brick had struck her in the head, she could have been killed. Whoever is stalking you?—”
“Will be dealt with by me. As for you—my wife is none of your concern. You gave up any right to be involved when you jilted her.”
Freyne glared at him. “If it came to a choice between business and a woman, you would have done the same.”
The words landed like a punch in the gut, but damned if Lucien would let Freyne see it.
“Keep her safe, Everdene.”
Every fiber in Lucien’s body knotted with tension, and with it, something he had not felt for as long as he could remember. Fear. “I will. Now, if you will excuse us, I have a honeymoon to enjoy.” He climbed into the coach and shut the door before a servant could do so.
Grace was sitting on the squabs. She’d all but taken his breath away when she’d walked toward the altar. Yet now, tears glittered on her cheek as she fingered a tear in her skirt, where the brick had hit.
He would see it mended, made perfect again, he thought, taking her hand in his. “I am sorry this happened. You are sure you are well?”
