Page 27

I cannot believe I allowed Mama to persuade me to let Lord Parkington escort me tonight,” Meg hissed to Lucy as they followed the throng toward the ladies’ withdrawing room at the far end of the corridor. “I knew he was a bit of a stick, but I had no notion he was as bad as all that.”

Lucy would have warned her friend if she’d known, but she hadn’t been aware of the arrangement until Will had handed her into the carriage to come here. “I’ve met him many times over the years, I’m afraid. Though thankfully he’s spent the past few years sequestered in the country. I suppose since his wife died last year, he’s on the hunt for a new one.”

“I can only presume that she died of boredom,” Meg said grimly. “I know I would if I were unlucky enough to be married off to a man who refused to let me read novels. Or converse about anything of the slightest interest to me.”

“A putrid fever, I believe,” Lucy said with a stifled laugh. Then, not wanting to sound disloyal, she added, “Though I’m sure she was relieved to take her leave of him.”

“Oh, do not be so agreeable when I am being horrid about some poor lady I never even met,” Meg chided. “I simply cannot conceive that men such as the marquess still exist. It is a very good thing that I never spoke to him about my work with the suffragists. He would no doubt have had an apoplexy on the spot.”

“There are all too many of them, I’m afraid,” Lucy said with a note of apology in her voice. “Otherwise there would be no question of women’s having the vote or being allowed into university. But even though education is wasted on men like the marquess, the moment there is any hint of allowing ladies to learn beside them, they poker up and begin speaking as if the end of the world is nigh. They are so tiresome.”

“At least my brother is not one of their number,” Meg said with a genuine smile. “He might be tiresome in other ways, but he is not of that ilk, thank heavens.”

Lucy was about to agree, but they’d just reached the door leading into the withdrawing room, and before she could follow Meg inside, she caught a glimpse of a man out of the corner of her eye and turned to look at him.

To her surprise, it was Sir Charles Fleetwood.

What in the world was he thinking showing his face in public? Surely he was well aware that the police were searching all over London for him after his shooting of Lord Cheswick?

Knowing she should tell Meg where she was going, but not wishing to lose sight of the man, she turned and began to follow him as he walked down the corridor away from the stream of operagoers.

As she followed him, she quickly realized that he was walking with purpose. This was a man on his way to some specific location—to a specific person, perhaps? As he went toward the door leading to the staircase, she trailed at a discreet distance. Was he here in search of Christopher Hamilton—or whatever the man who was posing as Vera’s former betrothed was called?

But she soon realized that wherever he was going it was not within the opera house itself, but somewhere outside. He followed the corridor leading from the stairs into the black-and-white-marble-tiled entrance area and made for the doors. Once he’d stepped outside, she followed after him, only to be waylaid by a man who worked for the theater.

“Can I be of service to you, miss?” he asked with an obsequious bow. Then, looking pointedly behind her, as if to call attention to the fact that she had no maid with her, he added, “I’ll just send a note to your party, shall I?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lucy told the man with her sunniest smile, though in her head she noted that Parkington wasn’t the only man to butt his nose in where it wasn’t wanted this evening. “My mama is waiting for me in the carriage. She’ll worry, so I dare not delay.”

And before the man could offer an objection or detain her any longer, she hurried out the door and into the chill night air.

To her relief Fleetwood was at the bottom of the steps leading down to the street below. She watched as he disappeared around the stone wall that separated the opera house from the property next door—a churchyard, from the looks of it. As she neared the corner, she saw a group of servants dicing and rushed past them before they could spot her and try to detain her like the man inside the theater had done. She had enough officious gentlemen to contend with without other people’s servants joining in the mix.

As she turned the corner, she saw Fleetwood up ahead and sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. As they went farther down the lane, she realized that though there were gas lamps lining the street, the additional lights that had made the area outside the theater relatively easy to navigate were no longer there, and the dimness made it necessary for her to pay closer attention to where she stepped.

Just as Fleetwood neared the overhang of a building that was swathed in darkness, she realized that he’d slowed his steps. Was he meeting someone here? Then, as he reached the far end of the building she saw the figure step out from the other side.

“I don’t see why we had to come here,” Fleetwood began as he noticed the other person. “But I’m here now, what did you mean by—” But he broke off before he could finish as the other man—for surely it was a man—lifted his arm in the air. Metal glinted in the moonlight, and she heard Fleetwood cry, “No!”

Lucy gave a bloodcurdling scream. Realizing that he and Sir Charles weren’t alone, the assailant froze, then sprinted off into the night.

Hoping the man wasn’t planning to come back and stab her as well, Lucy rushed to Fleetwood’s side and saw blood flowing from a wound in his chest. Nursing another bleeding man soon after seeing to Cheswick’s wound after he’d been shot, Lucy felt a sense of unreality. Still, she had to help him. Kneeling down beside him, she withdrew the handkerchief from her pocket and folded it into a pad, which she pressed down hard over the wound. She saw that the injured man was having difficulty breathing and reached down to take his hand. It was clear that this wound was far more serious than the one sustained by Cheswick the other evening. “Don’t worry, Sir Charles, I’m sure help is on the way. Just try to stay calm.”

“M-m-miss P-p…” he tried to say, but Lucy shushed him.

“Yes, Sir Charles, it’s Lucy Penhallow,” she said in her most comforting voice. “Do you know who did this to you?”

He seemed grateful for her taking charge and gave a slight nod, though it seemed to take a great deal of his already waning strength. “T-t-tell Christina. S-s-sorry.”

But it was clear that the knife must have hit something vital, because Fleetwood’s eyes closed then and, as Lucy watched, the life seemed to drain from the man’s body. And then he was still.

Sir Charles Fleetwood was dead.

Feeling tears stream down her face, she rose to her feet and took a step away from him.

She was staring down at the blood on her hands when she heard running footsteps coming toward her. But before she could hide she saw that it was Will coming toward her.

“Lucy, my God,” he said breathlessly as he reached her, then she realized she must have gotten blood on more than just her hands because he gaped. “Are you hurt? Has someone hurt you?”

“Not my blood,” she said in a shaky voice. Only then, it seemed, did Will notice the man lying on the ground behind her.

“Thank God,” Will said, pulling her against him, and she was shocked to feel a tremor run through him. “Thank God.”

“Sir Charles Fleetwood is dead,” she said in a dazed voice. “Someone stabbed him.”