die.” He gathered up the ribbons. “There may be more of them.”
“Onto the back,” Fred ordered the footman. “I’ll ride up front.” He stalked to the door of the carriage.
Maggie looked at him, her eyes wide. “The bullet hit him?”
“Of course it did. With any luck, he’ll be dead by morning.” He scanned her face and figure through the lowered window. “He didn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head numbly. “Fred, are you certain—”
“There’s no time for talk. We must hurry. There could be others lying in wait for us along the road.” He departed without another word. Within seconds the carriage sprang into motion.
Maggie sank back in her seat. Her vision blurred with tears.
Fred had shot St. Clare.
It didn’t seem possible. And yet, she’d recognized that sound. Had known as soon as she heard it that the bullet had struck flesh.
She’d wanted to leap out and run after him, foolish as that would be. Even now, she suppressed an overpowering urge to scream for the coachman to go back. She couldn’t just leave St. Clare there. She had to see for herself that he was all right.
But what could she do?
Even if she managed to convince Fred to let her out, there would be no way of aiding St. Clare without revealing his identity. She was powerless to help him. Powerless to do anything.
“There, there, dear,” Aunt Harriet said, patting her hand. “His valet will look after him.”
Maggie blinked at her through her tears. “What?”
“These sporting gentlemen and their servants know how to take care of their war wounds. And I daresay Lord St. Clare knows better than most after so many years of villainy.”
An icy awareness seeped into Maggie’s veins. Her vision slowly cleared. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Young Viscount St. Clare,” Aunt Harriet said. “I saw you conversing with him through the back window.”
“You…what?” Maggie’s nerves jangled a sharp warning. She flashed an anxious look at the long carriage window behind them. It was framed by velvet curtains and lit by the single flickering lamp inside.
Standing behind the carriage with St. Clare, she’d taken no notice of it at all. It had never once occurred to her that Aunt Harriet might be peeping out at them. That she might have witnessed Maggie lowering St. Clare’s mask.
“I saw him,” Aunt Harriet said.
Maggie wiped her eyes. “My dear ma’am…I know how it must look. But it isn’t what you think. Lord St. Clare—”
“He turned to highway robbery, didn’t he?” Aunt Harriet asked mildly. “After killing the duke’s son?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s what people said at the time. I always thought it was a vicious rumor myself. He was such a nice boy.”
Maggie stared at her in dawning realization. “Do you mean…James Beresford?”
“Aye. That’s right.” Aunt Harriet looked at her as though it was Maggie who had lost her wits. “The Earl of Allendale’s son. Jim, they called him. A handsome golden lad. Such a shame he was a wrong ’un.”
Located on Albemarle Street in Mayfair, Grillon’s was an eminently respectable London hotel. Luxurious too, by any standard. But St. Clare hadn’t taken rooms there to enjoy such luxury. If that were the sole consideration, he’d have sooner remained at his grandfather’s house in Grosvenor Square. No. It was privacy he wanted. And privacy for which he paid a tidy sum.
The hotel’s manager, Mr. Fordyce, was the soul of discretion. He didn’t utter so much as a peep when St. Clare appeared in the dead of night, shrouded in a cloak and leaning on Enzo for support.
No doubt the man assumed he was foxed. An assumption aided by the fact that, upon reaching his rooms, St. Clare immediately sent down for two bottles of brandy.
Enzo busied himself filling a basin in the dressing room while St. Clare stripped off his linen shirt. He sucked in a sharp breath as his sleeve—stuck fast with dried blood—peeled away from his arm. Fred’s bullet had merely winged him, but that didn’t mean the wound didn’t hurt like the very devil. And it hadn’t stopped said wound from bleeding profusely.
It was no less than he deserved for behaving in such a reckless manner.
The moment he’d heard that Fred had taken Maggie away in his carriage, St. Clare had lost the remaining hold he’d had on his temper. For the second time that night, he’d seen red.
His grandfather often warned him of the dangers of his Beresford temper, both in words and with visual displays of his own poorly controlled ire. St. Clare had prided