Page 111 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Isobel’s blood went cold.
“Did he?—”
Adrian’s hand settled possessively over her arm. “It seems like he might have done. But don’t worry, love. Stay here with me. The Runners can jump in after him.”
“Do you think he’ll escape? The water must be so cold.”
And although the Thames didn’t always run fast, they were in the dark, and there was nowhere to climb out of the river. Even the docks, sticking out into the water, were too high for anyone to grasp without outside help.
Isobel shivered. Despite everything, perhaps he had found a way to end his life, after all.
For all that, she wished he hadn’t. Yes, she thought he deserved to hang for his crimes, but she had wanted his death to be a symbol of her victory. A chance for his victims’ families to feel as though they had found justice. Not a watery grave.
Adrian’s arm closed around her shoulders, holding her against him as she gave a sob, her fingers finding his lapels and holding on for dear life.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “Either they’ll find him and pull him out and he’ll face justice, or he’ll face a justice of his own making. Either way, they’ll pull him out, and the world will know what he’s done.”
“I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“He’s gone under,” one of the Runners yelled. “Here, fish him out.”
Isobel closed her eyes.
Deep inside, she knew there would be no fishing him out. At least, not in time. He was dead and gone.
“Come on,” Adrian said, leading her back toward the carriage she had been so reluctant to approach before. “Let’s go home.”
Lord Rowton was pacing the hallway when they finally returned home.
“Thank God,” he said, his gaze passing from Adrian to Isobel. She could see the way his hands trembled even though he clasped them behind his back. “What happened?”
Adrian handed over the knife she’d given him. “Put this somewhere safe. We’ll deliver it to a magistrate tomorrow morning.”
Lord Rowton looked at the blade with disgust before finally grasping it between two fingers. “I’ll see to it. Moreton?”
“Dead,” Adrian said shortly. Beside him, Isobel stiffened. Everything had felt so much like a bad dream. She’d been prepared for anger—even for violence—but it transpired therewas a large difference between watching Moreton lose his temper and him pointing a gun at Adrian.
When she closed her eyes, she would see the glint of the blade as Moreton swung it at Adrian. She would smell the bitter tang of blood as it coated the dirty alley.
The events of the night would stay with her forever.
Her only consolation was that she and Adrian had survived. Against all the odds, they were here and they were alive.
Now all she had to do was confront the state of their marriage.
Lord Rowton looked between the two of them as though he wanted to ask for something else, then stepped back. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”
“I’ll tell you everything then. For now, I’m going to call for a bath.” Adrian nodded at the butler, who hovered just out of sight.
Isobel closed her eyes, half wanting to weep at the idea. She did want a bath, desperately—sweat itched under her clothes, and she had a smear of blood on her hands from the knife. Her skirts were also filthy.
But more than that, she wanted to talk to Adrian.
Adrian slipped his hand in hers, surprising her, and towed her to the stairs.
“Until tomorrow,” he said to Lord Rowton, dismissing him, and led her up the stairs.
Isobel followed, not having the energy to fight him—at least until they reached his bedchamber. There, she tugged her hand free of his.
