Page 39 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Fiona shifted her weight on the cold, hard floor, her skirts bunched beneath her knees. It had been years since she’d sat on the floor for so long. She used to do this often when Eddie and Leslie were little—playing games, reading stories, crawling after them across the nursery carpet.

Edward would never have tolerated sitting like this—not for long—even without armed brigands standing about with pistols drawn.

His old army injuries made sitting on the ground intolerable.

He always preferred to scoop the children into his arms and carry them or ride them about the house on his broad back, laughing as they clung to him.

He was so very strong. A few times, for the children’s amusement, he had even managed to pick her up as well, trotting through the drawing room with his wife on his back while the little ones squealed with laughter. The servants must have thought them utterly mad.

She stifled a groan, pressing a hand to her aching back. Better to focus on those memories—her children, her family—than the terror of the current situation.

A gentleman beside her gave a low groan. Fiona turned quickly. His breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead shining with sweat.

“Here,” she whispered, tugging her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressing it into his damp palm. “Wipe yer brow. Slowly now, breathe easy.”

Then she lifted her chin toward the nearest brigand. “Lads, fetch us some water, please,” she asked, polite but firm. “This man will swoon without it.”

The man sneered, his pistol twitching in his grip. No help there. None of them cared.

She turned toward Lady Pelham. “How are ye feeling?”

The woman nodded faintly, her eyelids drooping as if she might drift into unconsciousness.

Thwack!

The sharp sound cracked through the ballroom. Lady Pelham jerked upright, while others gasped, heads snapping toward the balcony doors. Something heavy had landed outside.

A woman nearest the glass peered out, then shrieked.

Panic surged through the crowd. Guests scrambled backward, dragging at skirts and coats, desperate to put distance between themselves and whatever lay beyond. Lady Pelham clutched at Fiona’s sleeve with clawing fingers, nearly tearing the fabric.

Fiona forced herself to look. She wished she hadn’t.

A man lay sprawled on the snow-covered balcony. His limbs were twisted unnaturally, his mouth slack, blood streaking the floor beneath him.

The bandits stiffened, pistols jerking wildly as their eyes darted around the room. One man dashed forward, shouting, “I’ll fetch Harry!”

Moments later, their scar-faced leader strode into the ballroom. He stalked to the balcony doors. “Mike, with me.”

The two stepped outside, and Mike raised his pistol, scanning the roofline, the shadows, the night beyond. The leader crouched by the corpse, his hands trembling as he searched the body.

“Christ’s blood!” he exclaimed. “What is this?”

He ripped a paper from the dead man’s chest, then stormed back into the room. He shoved the bloodied sheet beneath Fiona’s nose.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her hand clenched around Lady Pelham’s arm to steady herself.

“What does it say?” the brigand snarled.

With a trembling hand, she took the note. “Yer Christmas goose is cooked,” she read.

“Wha' in devil does tha' mean?” another brigand demanded.

Fiona drew in a sharp breath. “It means yer plans are ruined,” she said, her voice shaking.

She knew the phrase well. Edward had said it often—in fact, it was his favorite phrase.

He had muttered it during family card games when he thought himself clever, when invitations to their balls had been declined by the families Fiona wanted to marry her children into, when he was plotting to outmaneuver a rival in business.

Your goose is cooked.

It was such a ridiculous phrase. Maddening at times. Yet hearing it now sent her heart surging. Could it be him? Was Edward here, sending both a warning to the brigands and a sign to her?

No. She could not allow herself such hopes. He wasn’t here. They had gone their separate ways months ago. He would never chase her through a snowstorm. He hated snow.

He cursed it whenever they traveled to Scotland to visit her family. He would never venture into the North by choice.

Her chest ached. She set her jaw and forced her gaze from the note, from the bandit, from the memory of Edward’s wry smile.

I am on my own.

But her pulse hammered in her throat, betraying her resolve.

Because if it was not Edward… then who?