Page 2 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

Was that rope fraying? Esther shaded her eyes and peered more intently, and she gasped. Several cords were sticking out, untwisting from the braid.

She turned her attention to the men pulling the statue up, wondering if they were staring at the fraying rope as she had, seeing the possible dangers. The sun shone upon them, directly into their faces, obscuring what they could see.

Esther looked from the men to the rope, to the statue, to the distance Hermes had yet to rise.

It is only a statue, she told herself. If it falls, it falls. She bit her bottom lip, knowing that crying out would not help the situation. Perhaps the statue would make it to the top before the rope gave way. No harm done.

Her gaze fell to the walkway and her heart stuttered. A man walked toward 21 Grosvenor Square, staring down at something in his hands, and moving at a fast enough clip, Esther felt certain he would not stop. In fact, he appeared oblivious to the sight enthralling everyone else, his whole attention directed to a paper in his hands.

Esther slipped away from Miss Linton, a cry of warning on her lips.

Her eyes went up to the rope again and an invisible hand closed around her throat.

Acting quickly, Esther ran forward as fast as she could. She stretched both hands out before her.

She heard the snap of the rope above her head. Esther did not slow, but she ran directly into the body of the man with all the force at her disposal, knocking them both down to the ground. She landed atop him, a horrific crack sounding at the same instant her world went black.

∞∞∞

One moment, Silas seriously contemplated whether there were any men of sense in the House of Lords, and the next he found himself flying backward to the ground.

His arms came up reflexively, wrapping around the slim figure of the woman literally flinging herself at him, as though doing so might protect at least one of them from the fall. As he hit the ground with the woman atop him, the air pushed out of his lungs.

A horrific crack assaulted his ears and echoed against the houses on the square, and somewhere a person screamed. His whole body protested, pain radiating from his spine outward.

He looked down at the head of deep brown curls upon his chest, realizing the woman in his arms had not moved since their inelegant landing. Her bonnet hung askew, pulling locks of her hair to the side with it, obscuring her face.

Silas started to sit up, cradling the woman in his arms, his heart pounding against his ribs almost painfully.

Was she hurt? What had happened?

As though hearing his muddled thoughts, a man knelt next to Silas and started speaking rapidly. “Oy, she’s bleedin’, sir. Looks like a bit of the rock clipped her on the head. Are you injured, sir?” Then the person turned away and shouted over the crowd. “Someone run for a doctor!”

People appeared in Silas’s line of vision, pressing forward in clusters, women with pale faces and men with deep frowns.

“She saved your life, she did,” someone said.

“Oh, Miss Fox,” a high-pitched voice wailed, another woman coming forward. “Is she dead?”

Silas looked down again, tilting the woman back in his arms enough to see her face. Long dark lashes lay against her colorless cheeks, her lips parted and her features were relaxed. Yet he could feel her breathing, could see the rise and fall of her chest. She groaned and her eyelashes fluttered again.

Worry clouded his mind. Why did her face seem so familiar?

Miss Fox? It could not be—not Isaac’s sister?

Dread gathered deep in his chest, forcing a gasp from him. Moving carefully, Silas got his legs beneath him and stood, holding the unconscious woman in his arms. He looked around, seeing white stones scattered about the pavement, white powder everywhere with it.

Men shouted from above, over an iron rail three stories in the air, and gestured wildly.

The woman in his arms stirred and groaned, her eyes softly opening but closing before he could even make out their color. She remained limp.

Silas swept the crowd pressing in upon them, then went to the house before which they stood. Lady Sparton stood on the steps, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hands pressed to her cheeks.

Silas acted. Standing about and waiting for someone to explain things to him would not do. He barreled toward the lady, up her steps, and past her into the elegant house. He ignored her startled gasp, looking about the entryway for a door, a parlor, a suitable place to lay his burden. He went to the first door he saw and kicked it open, entering what appeared to be a receiving room of sorts. There was a couch, and that was all he needed.

Silas carried the woman there and laid her down, as gently as possible. He eased his arm from beneath her head, and he saw, at last, the blood the man on the street had spoken of. The gray sleeve of his coat was coated in red where he had cradled the back of her head.

“Lord Inglewood, what happened?” a breathy voice asked from the doorway.