Outskirts of London
Fernleigh House Garden
Early May 1819—late afternoon
Are we going to die?
Rigid and trembling, Georgine Thackerly stood beside her closest friends—Roxina Danforth, Matilda Fitzlloyd, Aubriella Matherfield, and Claire Granlund in the Fitzlloyds’ magnificent garden.
Rufus Desmond—dangerous and despicable with a soul blacker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat—had dared to trespass into the private sanctuary and now stood with a gloating grin spreading across his face.
According to Roxina, the blackguard would just as easily shoot them as stomp upon a beetle with his boot heel.
Icy dread engulfed Georgine.
“You are trespassing, sir.” Matilda swallowed before continuing, her voice tremulous but even. “I must ask you to leave at once before I send for the constable.”
“Not without Miss Danforth,” Desmond responded with arrogant confidence.
“As there are five of us and only three of you, how do you propose to take Roxina?” Aubriella challenged him, and Georgine couldn’t help but admire her bravado.
He waved his pistol, sunlight gleaming off the barrel, as his two unsavory compatriots openly ogled the women. His voice steeped in smugness, Desmond said, “We are armed, and I seriously doubt you ladies have a pistol or a knife hidden in your skirts.”
Something Georgine would seriously consider in the future. That and shooting lessons.
If she survived this ordeal.
She raised her chin in challenge. “Yes, but we can scream and cause a ruckus. People will come running.”
She sounded far more confident than she felt.
“That would be foolish.” Shaking his head, Desmond let out a dramatic sigh. “I’ll shoot the first woman who screams.”
The women gasped in unison.
Georgine had no doubt the fiend would shoot them,
without compunction or remorse.
Desmond shifted his pistol toward Roxina. “I still intend to take Miss Danforth, with or without your cooperation.”
“If I come willingly,” Roxina said evenly, “will you leave my friends unharmed?”
“No, Roxina,” Georgine whispered.
Desmond tilted his head in mock consideration.
“There’s no need for you to sacrifice yourself, Roxina.” Shelby Tellinger eased through the opening in the gate behind Desmond.
Caught by surprise, Desmond stiffened.
The madman’s carelessness sent a tiny quiver of hope skipping along Georgine’s pulse.
An instant later, Robyn Fitzlloyd slipped into view.
Both men wielded guns.
Her pulse jumped again, and relief coursed through her. All hope was not lost. Never had Georgine been so glad to see Robyn…and Shelby too, of course.
Surely Desmond would leave now.
What choice did he have?
“I would not move, not even to breathe.” Pistol drawn, Robyn stepped forward. His usual affable air had hardened into something cold and menacing.
Georgine shivered, never having seen this ferocious side of him before.
He swept a glance over the women—pausing on his sister, then Georgine for half a second—before leveling his gun at Desmond’s henchmen. “I’ll thank you to stop pointing your weapons at the women.”
“You and Tellinger have but a single shot.” Desmond waved his pistol between himself and his men. “You cannot shoot all three of us.”
“But there are three of us, as well.”
Startled, Desmond turned as Quentin Honeybrook stepped out from behind a laurel bush, his weapon raised and his stare murderous. “And I’ll wager this commotion has servants and townspeople descending upon the gardens within seconds. This is a battle you shall not win.”
“Oh, thank God,” Claire whispered beside Georgine. “We are saved.”
Not yet; we aren’t.
“Ladies, move toward the house. Slowly,” Honeybrook instructed, his tone flat and icy.
“The first one that takes a step gets a lead ball,” Desmond’s taller companion countered before spitting on the ground.
“Hold your tongue, Carver.” Desmond speared the man a murderous glare. “I give the orders.”
Then, the callous beast raised his pistol and aimed the barrel straight at Roxina.
Georgine’s blood congealed in her veins, and her lungs constricted so she couldn’t suck in any air.
A growling, furry canine blur hurtled into the scene—Dash, Roxina’s faithful hound.
Desmond staggered as Dash collided with him.
A gunshot cracked like thunder, sending a bird to
flight.
A woman screamed, but Georgine didn’t know who.
Two more shots rang out in quick succession.
The scarred man beside Desmond collapsed with a
neat hole in his forehead. His pistol clattered beside him.
Oh, my God.
Bile billowed up Georgine’s throat. She’d never seen anyone shot before. Waves of nausea slammed into her, and faintness caused a myriad of tiny black dots to dance before her eyes.
Desmond roared as Dash sank his teeth into the man’s arm. With his free hand, Desmond yanked a blade free from beneath his coat.
“Dash!” Roxina cried in terror for her beloved pet.
“Stay back, Roxina!” Tellinger lunged forward.
Desmond lifted his blade to strike the snarling
animal.
Honeybrook didn’t hesitate. With one eye closed, he aimed and discharged his gun.
Desmond’s head snapped back, and before Georgine
could blink, he hit the ground. The knife slid from his hand, blood pooling beneath his skull.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
Searing heat bloomed in Georgine’s shoulder. She glanced downward, even as she touched the crimson staining her gown. Blood coated her fingertips.
Blood?
She blinked in confusion.
“Georgine?” Matilda’s alarmed voice, faint and muffled, seemed to come through a long tunnel.
“Oh, my God.” Aubriella flung an arm around Georgine. “You’ve been shot, Georgie.”
“I don’t feel any pain.” Georgine blinked, trying to focus her fuzzy vision. “So why am I bleeding?”
“She’s in shock.” Claire’s voice trembled. “Someone should notify her sister.”
Everything became hazy, making it hard to see and hear.
A second later, Robyn lifted Georgine into his arms. He spoke to her, but she couldn’t quite catch his words.
Was that tenderness in his hooded brown eyes?
Robyn never regarded her tenderly.
Mocking, derisive, exasperated, superior, and sardonic?
Indeed, and often.
The blood loss must be causing her to imagine things.
“Robyn Fitzlloyd, put me down,” she demanded, rather weakly. “What will people say?”
“If I put you down, you’ll collapse.” Jaw clenched, he marched toward the house. “Besides, I’d sooner tend a flea’s hiccup than fret about gossip.”
“Bossy brute.”
Then, the world slipped away.
