Page 110 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Isobel picked up the knife from where it had landed, handling it gingerly. There was still blood on the blade from where she imagined it had sunk into the dead man’s body.
She inhaled, fighting back the nausea. If Adrian could do this, so could she. They were a team; they would handle this together.
“You’re doing great, love,” Adrian said even as he kept his gaze locked on Moreton’s body. “I’m proud of you.”
Despite everything that had passed between them, Isobel felt a glow of pride. He was proud of her, something he’d never said before in all their days of being together.
She wanted to kick her heels and squeal. A completely illogical impulse now of all times. She ought to be horrified—and shewas, but something about Adrian’s capable demeanor andpraise made her feel as though everything was going to be all right.
Footsteps sounded behind them, and Isobel turned to find several men running into the docks.
“Bow Street Runners,” one man called, his booming voice leaving no room for doubt. “We received a message that there was something occurring here,” he said as he approached, chest puffing. “And I can see we were right.”
“Ah, gentlemen.” Adrian cast a quizzical look at Isobel, who shrugged.
She had attempted to tell him that she’d instructed Lord Rowton to send for the Bow Street Runners, but he hadn’t let her speak.
“I am glad you’ve arrived. As you can see, you must arrest this man. There is a murdered body over here.”
“And who are you?” the man demanded.
“I am the Duke of Somerset.” Adrian held out his hand, where his ring—with its crest—was clearly revealed. “And I am telling you to arrest this man. He is guilty of more murders than just the one here tonight.”
“Right-o,” the Runner said, still puffed up with his own self-importance. “If you release him, sir, we’ll take him with us and off to gaol.”
Prison. Isobel knew a little of what happened in England—the Old Bailey was famous, after all—but part of her had hoped he would be immediately arrested and committed to death. A trial, while a magistrate heard all the pieces of evidence they had collected, felt as though it would go on altogether too long.
Her chest cinched.
Adrian removed his foot from Lord Moreton’s back. But instead of lying there passively, awaiting arrest, Moreton jumped to his feet and sprinted.
“No!”
Moreton ran past the warehouses, barely visible in the gloom and fog, and Isobel lurched forward, though it was too late to do anything.
“After him!” the Runner yelled, and the men plunged into the docks. Isobel shuddered, the fog sneaking under her clothes and making her cold.
“The knife,” she said, her voice catching.
“Give it here.” Adrian held out his hand, and she deposited the knife into it. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her into his chest. “Did you call for the Runners? Clever girl.”
“I told Lord Rowton to. He said it was the least he could do for letting me come here.”
“I’ll be having words with him.” Adrian tipped her chin up, not seeming to notice the chaos unravelling behind them. “Are you all right?”
“I—I think so. But ye shouldn’t blame Lord Rowton.” She gave a wan smile. “I threatened him with a pistol.”
“Of course you did.”
“He wanted to keep me at the house until ye returned, but I refused. I wanted to make sure ye were all right. And to help ye. Because that’s what partners do.”
He slid his hand into his hair, looking as though he would kiss her here, in a London dock in the middle of the night, when they heard a cry from behind them.
A yell that almost turned into a scream.
Yelling, commands that layered over one another.
And a splash.
