man’s neck. The dripping knife still clutched in her trembling, blood-drenched hands.
The fucking priest had been right.
Of all the nightmares…
It was her.
Chapter 5
Prudence was locked in a chamber of red.
She drowned in it. It filled her lungs so she couldn’t breathe. Her ears so she couldn’t hear. She could even taste it, or could she? Metal stained her tongue, but her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. Her throat wouldn’t allow her to swallow. She choked on her gall and grief.
William was yelling. He’d found her like this. Poor William. She’d never liked Honoria’s husband because of this tendency of his…always making such a ruckus.
“You bloody viper. You lunatic!” the Viscount accused. “How could you kill him? In a church of all places?”
“I-I couldn’t!”
Well, that wasn’t strictly true, now was it? She could have cheerfully murdered him many times over the past three months.
“I didn’t,” she amended. She hadn’t.
Pru looked down at her hands. Back at George. Over at William’s purple, puffy complexion, then down at her fiancé.
The blood wasn’t pumping anymore but draining slowly. Staining her dress. Everything and everywhere. The pool spread; the blood followed her as she stumbled back a few steps. A train of condemnation.
Oh God. She was going to be sick.
Except had nothing left to throw up, not since she’d emptied her stomach this morning.
“Prudence, don’t you dare move! What have you done?”
When had her father come in? She should be relieved, shouldn’t she? He’d know what to do.
She lifted the knife to show him. Someone had stuck it into the place George’s shoulder had met his neck. This long, long, long knife. All the way in. Why would they do that? Where had they gone?
It was so cold. So cold. And it had been so warm before in the crowded church. Warm enough to complain about it. They were both screaming at her. Making so much noise they could almost be heard over the bells. Wedding bells. Her wedding bells.
It all clamored so loudly it was deafening, and yet also very far away. Bells and bellows. Her father shouting questions. William calling her every sort of name.
Prudence tried to speak, but her throat wouldn’t allow it. Her tongue was stuck. Too dry.
Why was she still holding the knife? Why couldn’t her fingers uncurl?
George. What happened to you? She stared down at him, unable to blink. His long body remained face down where he’d landed. His skin no longer ruddy from drink, but white. Whiter than hers, even.
Poor George. He’d been merry this morning. Insufferable and already drunk. And now…
The door opened. A man entered.
And the pandemonium stopped.
Everyone obeyed his command for silence and, for the first time, Pru’s throat relaxed enough to allow a full breath. The sick sense of impending doom released the band around her ribs and her stomach stopped threatening to jump into her esophagus.
Everything would be all right. He was here now. Even though the world was upside down, he would know how to put it right.
Except… who was he?
She couldn’t look away from the blood.
“Prudence,” her father barked, as if he’d been saying her name for a long time. “This is Chief Inspector Sir Carlton Morley. You tell him everything, do I make myself clear?”
“I don’t…want to hold this anymore,” she whimpered, unable to peel her fingers from around the knife. God it was so big. It had been stuck in George’s muscles.
She moaned.
“Let me have the knife, Miss Goode.” A deep, cultured voice came closer, and a hand covered with a white handkerchief relieved her of the weapon. She’d never been more grateful for anything in her life.
“That’s one of our daggers!” Reverend Bentham exclaimed. “It’s a holy relic.”
“It’s evidence, I’m afraid,” the Chief Inspector said. “You can request it back once this affair is settled.”
That word. Affair. It made her want to cry.
Gaining some strength, Prudence lifted her head and lost what was left of her breath.
Those eyes.
They had once been liquid for her behind a mask. They had watched her come apart.
He’d made her come.
Chief Inspector? There must be some mistake. He was…a stag. No, not that. A shadow. Or he had been on a night nearly three months ago.
Pru gaped at him, dumbfounded, searching a face she’d committed to every corner of her memory.
He was at once the same and yet vastly altered. His hair a shade lighter than gold in the gleam of the noon sun through the windowpane. His suit a somber grey. His jaw sharp, clean-shaven and locked at a dangerous angle.