Page 16 of A Bride By Morning
“You could have killed me,” she whispered. “When he had the blade to my throat.” Would he have cared? Would he have missed her?
His jaw tightened. “I’ve never missed a target with a knife.”
A shudder went through her at the casual way he said it, at the implication that he did this often. “And if I hadn’t been quicker after you threw it?” Her words were brisk. Fear had made her reckless. “If I hadn’t thought to push his hand away when your weapon hit its mark?”
His features constricted. “Come.” He said the word so sharply that Lydia held back a flinch. She swayed as he tugged her down the garden path, but Gabriel’s firm hold kept her upright. He did not bother himself with her question. “At the terrace, we’ll part,” he said, his voice terse. “Go to your aunt. Tell her you’re unwell and must be escorted home. When you’re in the carriage, don’t be alarmed if you think you’re being followed. I’ll ask my man to keep watch over your house tonight.”
At the terrace stairs, Lydia turned to Gabriel. “What about you?”
Nothing of the charming scoundrel remained in his features now. All along, she’d known that was a performance, but there in the garden was the first time in years she’d seen his face exhibit such honesty. In truth, he possessed a severe countenance, his austere features shadowed in the gloom. She was beginning to understand that he operated more in the dark than in the light.
Pain pricked across her skin at the thought. She missed his genuine smile.
“I have someone I need to speak with.” Then, to her surprise, Gabriel reached for her. He brushed a soft thumb across her cheekbone, the touch as light as moth wings. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. But he did not say what he apologized for—if it was the blade to her throat, the men he’d killed, or if it was everything. Then he dropped his hand. “I’ll call on you in a few days. Now in you go.”
On trembling legs, Lydia climbed the terrace stairs and entered the ballroom. She held her breath and kept her head down as she passed the crowds of assembled aristocrats to where her aunt stood with the other matrons. She had no way of knowing if Gabriel had managed to clean all the blood off her face, or if her hair still held its coiffure after the attack. For once, Lydia was relieved that spinsterhood offered a certain invisibility. She could slip through the ballroom and leave early without stares or gossip.
Please don’t let Aunt Francis notice anything out of the ordinary,Lydia prayed.
But when Lady Derby saw her, the woman’s brows snapped together. “Lydia, darling, are you all right?”
Lydia swallowed her panic. Surely, if Gabriel hadn’t cleaned all the blood off, her Aunt Francis or one of the other matrons would have remarked on it.
“You do look quite pale,” Mrs. Fitzroy remarked.
“I’m a bit lightheaded,” Lydia said. And that wasn’t a lie. “With your permission, Aunt, I’d like to depart early.”
The other matrons made sympathetic noises as Lady Derby frowned in concern. “See?” she said, regarding Lydia with a stern look. “I told you I ought to have called on the doctor yesterday. She’s been ill since the Coningsby ball,” she explained to the others.
More sympathetic noises.
Lydia fanned her face with a hand. “It’s only the heat. I don’t require a doctor.”
“Mm.” Lady Derby didn’t seem convinced. “Here, take my arm and I’ll accompany you to the carriage. You seem unsteady.”
Lady Derby expressed her goodbyes to the other matrons and guided Lydia to the exit. It wasn’t until they got home and Lady Derby bustled Lydia up to her bedchamber that she let herself breathe. She braced against the door for support and dropped the shawl from her shoulders. Across the room, she caught her reflection in the gilded mirror.
She would have to throw out the dress before the maids saw it. Those bloodstains had no explanation.
7
Once Gabriel covered Mikhail and Pyotr’s bodies with the overgrown foliage in the Brome’s garden, he dispatched a flurry of missives to Wentworth’s agents for a clean-up. The men would wait for the ball to conclude, the house to settle, and quietly load the corpses for disposal before morning. Gabriel compensated the five men well for the unexpected responsibility.
After concluding that foul business and changing clothes at his residence, Gabriel paid Wentworth a late visit. The butler was used to men with certain clearance coming and going at odd hours; he’d been paid to ask no questions.
Wentworth was composing messages at his desk when Gabriel strode in. “Tell me your men have Medvedev in custody,” Gabriel said without preamble.
The spymaster tossed his pen down and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “He never showed.”
Gabriel’s hands curled into fists. “Fuck.What happened?”
Wentworth reached into his cabinet for two snifters and a decanter, pouring two fingers in each glass. He passed one to Gabriel. “My men intercepted Coningsby, who waited for over an hour by the docks. So either someone apprised Medvedev of the threat, or he suspected the meeting was compromised.”
Gabriel savoured the burn of spirits on his tongue. “I’ll say one thing for him, he’s a cautious bastard. He wouldn’t be alive if he weren’t.”
“Coningsby’s agreed to inform on the Syndicate as long as his involvement stays out of the broadsheets,” Wentworth said, sitting back in his chair. “But I’m not confident he’ll give us anything now that Medvedev has confirmed you’re alive, in London, and not named Alexei Borislov Zhelyabov.”
Gabriel leaned against the window frame and looked out over the road. Though he had taken an extended detour on his journey to Wentworth’s, he wondered if one of Medvedev’s men still managed to follow him. If they watched the house from the dark London street. “You think that’s why he brought my old associates to England? He received information on my true identity?”
