AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You daft girl, it’s you he wants.”
“Good, then let’s catch him before he does it again.”
Torn between hauling her back to Rawley and getting eyes on the criminal, Valentine gritted his teeth and growled his anger. She was going to get herself killed! Or shoot him in the back by accident. Squashing down his protective instincts, he nodded and lengthened his pace. If it had been Lisbeth, he would have been grateful for the help.
Think of her as another operative.
Every nerve in him bristled at that, but he couldn’t afford to call her the Kestrel only when he wanted her to be guilty. Reputations weren’t built on sand. The Home Office had been tracking her for months with nothing to show for it. That had to be based on some experience.
“Fine,” he gritted out. “Stay close and keep your eyes open. Shout if you see anything.”
“Is he still inside?”
Valentine nodded. “Yes.”
In any other situation, he would direct her to go around the other side of the building so they could cut the man off, but he was hindered by his own panic where she was concerned. He turned to tell her to stay put—extra eyes were always good—but the minx wasn’t there. All he saw were striped skirts disappearing through the front entrance.
Bloody hell, she was stubborn at the worst times! Dread pulsing through his veins, he raced down the side street to cut around to the back. There were people here, but not like those on the wide boulevard. A wide-eyed groom stood near a carriage.
“Anyone come out from here in the last five minutes?” the duke demanded.
“Non,monsieur,” the boy replied. “I heard two shots.”
Valentine nodded. “Yes, go hide somewhere safe.”
Inside the grand foyer with its enormous ceilings and thick walls for the business, people were murmuring, but smart enough to stay hidden from view. Valentine caught sight of Bronwyn heading up the staircase to the mezzanine above, which was mostly storage for the shop owners.
“Out of the bloody way!” A high-pitched male voice let out a stream of violent clipped English from somewhere overhead, and then came the sound of boxes toppling over and a crashing noise. That had to be him.
“Stop this instant, or I will shoot you!” Bronwyn’s clear voice called out, though she sounded uncertain. Nervous.
Valentine didn’t think. He leaped over the first few steps and sped upstairs, his legs burning from the effort and his heartbeat making an ungodly racket in his ears. Bronwyn stood at the top of the stairs to the second floor, her gun pointing at a clean-faced, smartly dressed young man of no more than seventeen or eighteen who stood near a window. He carried a rifle case, which made his innocent appearance all the more gut-wrenching. He’d shot at Bronwyn!
“Don’t move,” Valentine shouted. The boy’s gaze darted to him and narrowed. In recognition? In surprise? It was definitely with something, though he’d never seen the young man in his life. “Who are you? Who sent you?”
The assailant’s face went slack, right before he kicked open the large pair of ornate windows. “He’s coming for her and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
And then he jumped.
Seventeen
“Bronwyn, let the doctor look at you, for the love of God,” her aunt screeched. “You have blood on your dress.”
“I’m fine, Aunt. It’s a scratch.”
A scratch from a window that had shattered from a bullet meant for her. In fact, she was lucky that she’d escaped with just the thin nick on the underside of her jaw. By all accounts, she should be dead, bleeding out on the boulevard. Instead she was at home, safe for the moment, and being bombarded by a doctor who wouldn’t stop pestering her. She wanted to hear what the police were saying to the duke in the foyer.
From what she could overhear, the French Sûreté had confirmed that the shooter was unconscious and had been taken to the local hospital. Despite the fact that he’d tried to kill her, Bronwyn was glad the boy had survived the fall. He was so young. Less than a few years younger than her, true, but still. From the look of him, he wasn’t poor, and his crisp English had carried a distinct upper-class accent. Was he gentry? The son of an English peer? Why wouldheshoot at her? Then again, indoctrination began at early ages…and she was the daughter of an English peer.
The tumble from three stories had not killed him, but for the moment, he could not provide any answers as to who had employed him or why he was after her. And his last words before leaping had been ominous, suggesting that someone else would come. Bronwyn rubbed her arms and suppressed a shiver.
“See! You’re catching a chill.” Her aunt’s voice had risen an entire octave. “It could be the fever setting in, you wretched child.”
“I am fine, Aunt Esther, I promise you.”
For now, the Duke of Thornbury had taken up uninvited residence at her aunt’s domicile and seemed to think that he was in charge of everything, as indicated by his heavy frown in her direction as he strode toward the library. Bronwyn took a few hurried steps back as if that could prove she hadn’t been shamelessly listening to every word.
“I heard shrieking. What is the problem?”
