Page 54 of A Lady's Dangerous Secret
“I know. I’ll return shortly.”
She did not wait for an answer and made a beeline for the doors that led outside. She let out a gasp as cool air assaulted her lungs, and she gripped the railing at the edge of the balcony to support herself. Her chest heaved while she tried to steady herself. She did not know how long she stood there, but finally, she felt more stable, despite the tension pulsating through her body.
She opened her eyes and looked around quickly. Luckily, she was alone. Nevertheless, the din from the ballroom carried out the open doors to where she stood and frayed her nerves even further. She felt like a cornered animal.
She had to collect herself.
Charlotte lifted the hem of her light-pink ball gown and descended the stairs to the lush garden below. She maneuvered the rolled gravel paths as quickly as her slippers would allow, hoping to find a bench on which to sit in solitude. Gooseflesh covered her arms from the cool air, but she welcomed the chill and hoped it would numb her body and her mind. After she turned a corner, a bench came into view, thanks to the lanterns illuminating the pathway. With a sigh of relief, Charlotte satdown and took off her satin gloves. She stowed them in her reticule, and her hand brushed against the pistol she learned never to go without.
She cupped her face with her bare palms. Despite the cold, her cheeks felt flushed. She closed her eyes once again, trying to calm the rioting thoughts in her mind. She had to focus on her goal: marrying the Duke. It did not matter whether or not she truly knew him. She just needed the protection of his name.
Charlotte tried to picture Westcliffe, but of course, her traitorous mind only generated a stern face with a pair of stormy eyes and raven-black hair. She let out a sigh and froze when the sound of crunching gravel caught her attention. She slowly turned around to locate its source. A figure was hidden in the shadows at the bend in the path where she had turned to reach the bench.
“Finally, we’re alone,” an unfamiliar male voice spoke.
Charlotte’s hands thrust into her reticule. “Who are you?”
The figure stepped out of the shadows. The metal of a pistol trained on her caught the flickering lantern lights.
“You killed Simon Roberts and John Powell. You made a very powerful man angry.”
Charlotte’s heart pounded in her chest. From overhearing her brother Will talk about his experiences in the army, she knew not to make any sudden movements that would cause a man to reactively pull the trigger. Her trembling hands were in her reticule, but they fumbled with her gun’s safety. She had to keep him talking.
“I did nothing of the sort and know no John Powell. I’m freezing and must put my gloves back on. I’ll be on my way, sir.” It was bad enough that she murdered one man, but now she was accused of murdering two?
She needed to figure out a way to escape without turning her back to the man. Before she could come to a conclusion, his eerie voice broke through the quiet of the gardens.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the man threatened.
Charlotte heard the click of his safety release.
Yet again, James caught sight of Lottie rushing across a ballroom. She dashed through the open doors that led to the balcony. He had to speak with her before she announced she was betrothed or would marry the Duke of Westcliffe. James did not know what he would say to her, but he knew he had to see her.
By the time he made it across the ballroom and through the throngs of people to reach the outside, she was already gone from the balcony. He looked out over the gardens and saw the back of a feminine figure on a bench.
It must be her.
He noticed a man creep along the path toward her and pull a pistol from his greatcoat.
His heart stopped.
Lottie’s life was in danger.
She had her hands in her reticule as her voice drifted up to him. He could not discern exactly what she was saying, but he heard the word gloves. She fumbled in the purse, which seemed exaggerated.
The man continued to face Lottie and seemed unaware of his presence on the balcony. Her hands remained in her reticule. He thought her head turned toward him, but he could not be sure.
James pulled out his own gun, released the safety, and aimed at the man. One glove emerged from Lottie’s reticule, and her head darted in his direction. She dramatically slipped her gloveon her hand then returned to searching in her purse for the other one.
A flashback from the alleyway appeared in his mind when she had gloriously aimed a pistol at the blackguard. He prayed she carried a firearm with her again, but there was no way for him to know for sure. She was at a ball.
He was a good shot, but he worried he was too far from the ruffian and was hesitant to fire. He could not risk the attacker reflexively pulling the trigger and hitting her. The garbled voices of Lottie and the man continued while she kept her hands in her reticule. Her arms suddenly stilled, and she gave the slightest nod of her head. She must have her gun.
An unspoken message filtered into James’s brain, and he knew exactly what she was going to do.
“Hey! You there! What are you doing?” James bellowed from the balcony. Startled, the man glanced at him.
She pulled out her pistol and fired.
