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Except that he didn’t feel like laughing.
The bell tolled mournfully, warning of the fog. He’d noticed on his way to dinner that the white sea fret was already pressing against the windows, as if trying to find a way inside.
Even if any of them had wanted to leave, they could not do so with safety.
“My dear, your hands are icy.” Arnold was rubbing Lara’s fingers between his. “I’ll fetch your shawl.”
Lara opened her mouth then shut it again, looking bemused.
Her husband rose and, with a bow, excused himself. When the door closed behind him, the atmosphere seemed to lighten.
“Are the conditions here always so bracing, Mr. Worthorne?” Victoria demanded, helping herself to more mutton.
“There are compensations, Ma’am.”
“Indeed? And what would they be?”
“Early to bed, Ma’am.”
She looked at him blankly, then smiled. “You are very wicked, Mr. Worthorne.”
“So I have been told.”
Portia was staring at him as if she’d like to tell him exactly what she thought of such risk-taking, and in return he gave her his most innocent smile.
&nbs
p; The door opened and Arnold returned with Lara’s shawl. But instead of placing it solicitously about her shoulders, he stepped up to the table with the garment bundled in his arms.
“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” he said, “I hardly know what to say. The occasion demands some sort of speech, but perhaps explanations can wait.”
“Arnold?” Lara was watching him uneasily. “Can I have my shawl now?”
But Arnold wasn’t listening. He’d unwrapped the shape in his arms, and now the silk shawl slithered to the floor and they could all see what it was. A brace of pistols, primed and cocked.
Victoria’s guard didn’t hesitate. He lurched forward, but Arnold aimed and fired and the man fell to one side, clutching his chest. Blood bloomed through his waistcoat. Sebastian was on his feet, helping the wounded soldier into a chair, while Lara uttered little cries of distress.
Portia was white, staring at Arnold as he turned and calmly locked the dining room door. The queen had not moved, and the fear in her eyes was belied by the proud lift of her chin.
“My men will have heard the shot and will be coming for you even as we speak,” she announced. “Give up your weapon, Mr. Gillingham.”
“I’m afraid not, Ma’am,” he replied, his smile broadening. “While I was out a moment ago I went down to the kitchen. Your men were in there feasting with the servants, all very jolly they were. I barricaded the door nice and tight and they didn’t even hear me. No doubt they will batter their way out in due course, but by then it will be too late and you will be dead. Remember, I still have a loaded pistol.”
“Arnold!” Lara wailed.
“Shut up. I’ve waited all my life for this moment. England for the English, and you, my queen, are no more English than the kaiser.”
Marcus had been watching the scene unfold. He felt cold and alert and remarkably alive. He knew he couldn’t allow Arnold to assassinate the queen, that he must do something about it, but he would have to choose his moment well.
Sebastian caught his eye in silent warning. He had taken off his jacket and was pressing it to the wounded man’s chest. On his other side, Portia was pale and shaken but just as unbending as the queen.
Arnold was still talking. Ranting on about his father’s beliefs and the books he wrote that were never read. He seemed to believe that by shooting the queen he would spread his message to the world. Marcus didn’t think it worked like that but he wasn’t going to argue. The more Arnold raved, the more time he had to overpower him and take his pistol away.
“Arnold, please, you know you can’t escape. You’ll be hanged. And what will happen to Lara then?” Portia, the voice of reason.
Arnold glared at her as Lara began to sob. “If you hadn’t decided to indulge yourself, Portia, I would have completed my task long ago. As it is, I’ve had to wait, and I’m not very happy.”
“You could have shot me in the coach on the way here,” Victoria said. “Why didn’t you?”
