Page 17 of The Rake
“I know it was you,” Margot said, she drew her knife higher, allowing the light from the inn behind her to flash onto the blade. “Give me the paper you stole from the duke.”
“Unless you want a bullet in you too, girl, you’ll keep out of my way.”
A movement behind, one steady and quiet, told Margot that Langley had drawn his pistol. She didn’t know how good a shot he was, but she hoped he had the pistol locked and loaded.
“Shooting a duke, the attempted murder of a lord is a hanging offence,” Margot said.
For a moment nothing happened. The darkness hid a lot of the killer’s face, his hat drawn down low to disguise his features, so Margot could only make out the cleft on his chin, his lips, and a few strands of dark hair. But she could see he was grinning.
“You’d have to catch me first.”
There was a blast, the echo loud and piercing, close enough to her ear that Margot dropped the knife as a heavy weight slammed into her, causing her to crash down onto the dirty pavement.
“God.” It was Langley, heavy on top of her. His eyes were not on her, but on the street itself. Wriggling, Margot tried to free herself, but Langley held her in place beneath him. “Stay still, in case he comes back.”
“Did you hit him?”
He glanced down at her. His eyes assessing her face, alight with concern. “No, I saw what he was meant to do, firing through his own coat like that. I thought it was better to knock you over than go for the killing shot.”
The inn door had opened in the meantime and Peter and John as well as the inhabitants of the inn were pouring out into the street. Hastily, Margot found herself hauled upright, her body sore and her head throbbing, but otherwise unhurt.
Langley had started to berate John, as Margot looked along the now deserted street. The inn was directly in the sight of the clock tower, could that be a sign? “Did you see the man, the one who attacked us?” She turned back and looked at John. “What was he doing in the building, did you see anything?”
John shook his head. “No ma’am. I’m sorry, I didn’t see a thing.”
“I did,” a soft voice spoke up, and Margot turned to Peter, who was still holding on to his mug of ale. He moved closer and whispered in Margot’s ear. When he stepped back, a grin formed on her face. It wasn’t one of triumph, but at least she was one step nearer to understanding the clues that Ashmore had left her.
CHAPTER 8
Langley could not remember a worse night. So much for thrilling and shocking Margot Keating, for showing her something out of the ordinary. Well, it certainly had been different.
He had managed to depress her about poverty, discuss in far greater detail than he was comfortable with his role within thebeau monde, and then worse than all that, she had been shot at. His abilities at seduction were any of these incidents mentioned to thetonwould certainly undermine his status as one of the greatest libertines in high society.
It unnerved him no end to have to launch himself at her, when he’d seen the attacker move his hand within his coat. Somehow, Langley knew what was happening as it happened, and his heart had been in his throat as he’d flung himself on top of Margot. His blood was pumping, and his vision intense, and as for his breathing, it sounded as if he might have been running for miles.
Margot was beginning to draw some interest from the locals, and Langley reached for her again. “Let’s be leaving.” He was unduly concerned that the attacker might return for another attempt on Margot’s life, and he did not want to find himself souseless again. Never had he felt more embarrassed by his own shortcomings as he had when he’d searched for Margot’s pulse. This would not be happening again.
“I would just like?—”
“Now.” Langley’s command was sharper than he indented, and he saw Margot’s eyes widen either from surprise or displeasure, but she nodded and the two of them proceeded into the carriage.
Langley sank into the squab seat next to her. When the carriage took off, he drew from his pocket a flask of whisky, which he placed firmly in her grasp. “It will help with the shock.”
“Shock?”
He was certainly feeling some himself, but her annoyed confusion at least brought a faint smile to his face. “Are you normally shot at in the East End of London every evening?”
“At this point—” She unscrewed the stopper, “—it is twice in a row. Perhaps I will reach a point when it is the norm.”
Not if I have anything to say about it, Langley thought.
Margot paused with the flask halfway to her mouth. “This isn’t some sordid attempt to render me inebriated and take advantage?”
Her question Langley supposed was a fair one, but he realised as he looked at her that all thoughts of sexual congress had fled from his thoughts. He had been preoccupied, distracted, and fearful… Langley had long ago accepted that he had a greater lustful urge than other men, but it seemed now that there was something different occurring between them. What a hideously unnerving thought, almost on par with Margot being shot at. Almost but not quite. Nothing would ever compete with that.
Deciding none of those thoughts could be shared with Margot, he said, “Since I have never had to resort to such underhanded methods with women, why would I begin now?”
“It would be the only way you would ever have any success with me.” Margot lifted the flask the rest of the way to her lips and took a large gulp. She shuddered in reaction to the strength of the alcohol.
